


A Very Long Acquaintance

by Kate_Lear



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Complete, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 15:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 60,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6711337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of a meeting, a separation, and a reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fengirl88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/gifts).



> A story very ( _very_ ) loosely based on [Brief Encounter](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0037558/) and gifted to the kind, lovely, inestimable [ fengirl88](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88), whose idea it was.
> 
> If you spot any errors, please do let me know.

The bar in the students’ union is packed by the time John gets there; Milford’s is always popular but never more so than now, on the last Friday evening of exam week and with students ready to release their pent-up energy after weeks cooped up in the library and not out in the glorious early summer weather.

The bar was closed over the Easter break for redecoration – its previous name was The Junction, and some misguided soul had decided that dark-coloured walls and prints of old steam trains would be a suitable theme, God only knows why. It looks infinitely better, with its bright colours and large windows making the space seem far bigger than previously, however right now John is hard-pressed to care. He’d happily go to the worst dive in the East End, if there was a chance of a cold pint at the end of it.

John shoulders his way through the crowd until he spots the medical students, who’ve claimed a couple of tables in the corner and already have a cluster of empty pint glasses in front of them.

‘John!’ Mike Stamford shouts, spotting him, and John lifts a hand in acknowledgement as he makes his way over to them. They’ll have been here since lunchtime, most likely, and sure enough Mike’s round face beams at him with more than his usual cheer.

‘Hiya,’ John says, squeezing himself into a window seat with two other people and nodding his hellos at others. ‘How’re you getting on?’

‘Ah, nowt but canny,’ Mike declares, his Geordie accent always thicker after a few drinks, and John looks at the empty glasses in front of him and believes him. Mike pushes a full pint at John. ‘How’re you doing?’

John grins at him, lifting the pint to take a long drink. ‘Good.’

He’s been working his arse off for his exams for months now, with the pleasant result that he feels cautiously hopeful about the outcome, unlike some of the others around the table whose faces show that they’re kicking themselves over too much wasted study time spent out drinking.

One such face belongs to Colin Smyth, on the same year as John. John has worked with him several times, in various labs and dissection classes; Colin has always seemed a nice enough bloke, not one of the brightest in the class but not one of the slowest either, but his distinguishing feature is that he’s always ready to take on a dare or a bet.

So now it comes as no surprise to see Dan – a bloke John vaguely recognises as one of Colin’s flatmates – winding his way over to their table bearing a wooden board with half a dozen shot glasses on it, and a grin that means there’s trouble in the offing. The contents of the shot glasses are all brightly coloured in various lurid hues, and John rolls his eyes. What could _possibly_ go wrong here.

The first two go down easily enough, but on the third one – a straight tequila shot – the general good-natured uproar gets the better of Colin: a bloke leaps to his feet, jarring Colin’s elbow, and the shot goes over his shoulder and onto the floor.

At least, _most_ of it goes onto the floor. There’s a cry from behind Colin, unheard by the rest of the table in the general laughter but John catches it and cranes his head to see who made it.

There’s a tall, dark-haired man immediately behind Colin, one hand covering his left eye as he grimaces, and John hops down from his window seat and quickly makes his way to the man’s side.

‘Are you alright there?’

‘Do I _look_ alright?’ the man snarls. ‘Your _idiot_ friend just threw that foul stuff... Well, I suppose if he’s stupid enough not to watch what he’s doing then it’s just as well for the NHS that he failed his exams.’

For a moment John can only stare in astonishment at this startlingly accurate pronouncement, until the man starts to rub at his eye and John catches his forearm.

‘No, don’t do that, you’ll make it worse. Here.’

John firms his grip and drags the protesting man in the direction of the tiny staff office. Thanks to two months in his second year where John had half-killed himself trying to hold down a bar job while also doing a medical degree, he knows the code to the door lock and the bar manager merely gives him a distracted wave when John catches his eye and points to his companion.

Inside the room the noise from outside is muffled and John deftly steers the man to the little hand-sink in the corner.

‘Here, splash some water in your eye,’ he says, turning the tap on and tugging the man’s wrist away from his eye. ‘Wash it out a bit.’

‘You must be joking,’ the man says, resisting John’s urging, his one visible eye glaring balefully. ‘Do you have any _idea_ of the amount of bacteria in the typical glass of London tap water–’

John can hardly believe his ears.

‘Right,’ he says, stepping back and folding his arms. ‘You’d rather leave it as it is, yes?’

The man is taller than John; after a moment he grumbles but folds his lanky body down to hunch over the tiny basin, and a few moments later John hands him a paper towel to dry his face.

‘There’s still something in there,’ the man complains, wiping his face roughly before starting to knuckle at his eye again, and John gently fends his hands away.

‘Let me have a look.’

He steps in close; the man is still making rumbles of discontent, but he tilts his chin down to let John touch his face. John tries very hard indeed to ignore his new discovery of how good the man smells – like expensive cologne, and old paper, and something faintly chemical and astringent – and is gentle as he can be as he checks first the upper and then the lower eyelid for foreign bodies, but there’s nothing there and he steps back.

‘I think it’s probably just still irritated from the alcohol,’ he says. ‘Let it water for a bit, it’ll help to wash it out.’

The man looks at him. One eye is still bloodshot and watery but the other is a curious sort of blue-green-grey and John swallows a little at the realisation that, even wet-faced and annoyed, this is still the most attractive bloke John has ever met.

‘I’m John,’ he says, holding his hand out.

‘Sherlock,’ the man says, clasping John’s hand in a grip that’s still cold and damp, but firm.

John has never come across the name before; taken in combination with Sherlock’s attire – the tailored shirt that clings to every angle and plane, and the jeans that hug his narrow hips – it reinforces John’s impression of him as someone’s posh friend who’s come for a visit. None of John’s fellow students dress half so well.

The sheer attractiveness of him leaves John’s mouth dry as the Sahara. He tries desperately to think of something witty to say, something just a bit flirty that could be brushed off as a laddish joke if it turns out the bloke doesn’t swing that way.

‘I suppose your friends will be wondering where you are,’ John says with a short laugh, trying to make himself stop staring, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth he wants to kick himself. Not exactly Oscar Wilde or Monty Python.

But Sherlock shakes his head, his temper seeming to blow over as quickly as it had flared up. ‘I’m here on my own.’

Something inside John perks up. ‘Oh yeah? On your own as in waiting to meet someone, or...’

‘No.’ Sherlock shakes his head again, a curious tilt to one corner of his mouth. ‘Just me.’

It transforms his face; he was attractive enough when he was irritable and in pain, but now he’s bloody _gorgeous_ and John’s stomach lurches a little. Sherlock hasn’t broken eye contact and John thinks _What the hell_ and says ‘Then maybe I could buy you a drink? To apologise? And. Y’know.’ He shrugs. ‘To celebrate my first patient.’

‘Yes please.’ Sherlock’s answering smile is simply stunning, and John is abruptly breathless. ‘I’d like that very much.’

\----------

The covered courtyard outside Milford’s in much quieter than the main bar, although still busy enough that getting a table is a fool’s hope and they park themselves at the base of a flight of stairs. Sherlock sits close – _surely closer than he needs to_ , John’s mind whispers – and their knees brush as John shuffles.

‘So,’ John begins haltingly. All his brain can come up with are either terrible, silly clichés like _Do you come here often?_ or incredibly inappropriate things like _You’re fucking_ beautiful _when you smile, I want to make it happen again, tell me how_.

John takes a drink from his pint to pull his thoughts together, trying to wet his throat and calm the butterflies raging in his stomach, and searches for something to get the conversational ball rolling, something more intellectually engaging than just ‘Where are you from?’. God, this is ridiculous, he can’t remember the last time he was this nervous around an attractive–

‘Cambridge,’ Sherlock says.

John blinks. ‘Sorry?’

‘You were about to ask where I’m studying, or whether I’m studying at all.’ Sherlock waves a careless hand at himself. ‘I’m at Cambridge, and just down for the weekend.’

‘Right. I... yeah, I had been about to ask you that, actually.’

John’s head reels, slightly off-balance by the way this boy seems to be able to pluck his half-formed thoughts straight from his mind. A treacherous thought of _W onder if he knows I fancy him_ flashes across his mind; John quashes it swiftly but, from the tiny quirk of Sherlock’s lips and the sweep of his lashes as he looks down, not swiftly enough. John’s face heats.

‘Staying with friends, then?’ John says quickly, trying to cover his discomfiture.

Sherlock shakes his head.

‘Then where...’ John looks around, frowns, and makes to stand up. ‘Your stuff, did you leave your bag in the bar?’

Sherlock shakes his head again, looking more amused by the minute.

John can’t help but gawk a little as he settles back down (not missing the chance to inch closer to Sherlock).

‘Are you seriously telling me that you’ve come down to London with nothing but the clothes you’re standing up in and nowhere to stay?’ 

‘Yes.’

John verbally flails for a moment, before seizing on ‘ _Why_?’

Sherlock shrugs. ‘For a lark. To see what would happen.’

He glances at John’s face and elaborates. ‘Cambridge is so _dull_ , you’ve no idea. Now _London_ , on the other hand.’ His eyes sparkle, transforming him briefly into the creature that took John’s breath away. ‘London is where things _happen_.’ He glances at John. ‘As you should know, since you moved all the way here from Morpeth.’

John startles. ‘What?’

‘Oh, is it not Morpeth?’ Sherlock frowns. ‘I suppose it could be Blythe instead, but–’

‘I... yes, no, that’s... um... you were right the first time, it’s Morpeth.’

John has never had much of an accent, he can’t see what would possibly have given him away.

‘How...’ John begins warily, ‘could you _possibly_ know that I’m–’

‘I saw your driver’s licence when you paid at the bar,’ Sherlock says, with a disarming smile. ‘You should really be more careful, you know, identity theft is all the rage these days.’

Surprised, John laughs and Sherlock’s smile broadens.

‘But seriously,’ John says, resting his pint on a step and looking at Sherlock. ‘How did you know that about Colin? Exams have barely finished, there’s no way to tell yet.’

‘Ah well.’ Sherlock sets his glass down and leans an elbow on the next stair up. He looks at John archly; despite their surroundings John’s mind can’t help but picture Sherlock in the exact same pose while lying in crumpled sheets, and wearing significantly fewer clothes.

‘It takes all the fun out of it if I tell you,’ Sherlock demurs, pretending to consider the remnants of the froth on top of his pint while John watches the line of his throat work as he speaks. ‘You’re impressed now, but if I tell you then two minutes later you’ll declare it’s all so absurdly simple.’

He glances up at John out of the corner of his eyes, dark lashes half-hiding his gaze and long fingers joining up droplets of condensation on the side of his pint glass, and delight thrills through John’s stomach at the realisation that Sherlock is _flirting_ with him.

John leans on the step also, mirroring Sherlock’s posture.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,’ he says, looking boldly at Sherlock’s mouth and taking his time before letting his gaze lift to meet Sherlock’s. ‘There are lots of other things about you that I bet are just as impressive.’

Sherlock looks away, biting his lip, but not before John has seen the corner of his mouth pull up and his cheeks pink. John grins himself, and takes a drink of his pint. _This_ is something he knows how to do: he may not be the tallest or loudest or best-looking bloke in the room but he’s thoughtful, and a good listener, and he knows just the right combination of cheeky and solicitous to have all the prettiest girls eating out of his hand. All the prettiest boys too, come to that, and John tilts his head on one side attentively and looks encouraging as Sherlock wets his pink lips with a dart of tongue and starts to speak.

It _does_ sound absurdly simple, once the steps in the chain of logic are laid out for him, and John feels like an idiot for not seeing it himself. But he doesn’t say as much, merely waits until Sherlock has stopped talking and lets his admiration thrum in his voice as he says warmly ‘Amazing.’

Sherlock turns his head away. ‘Meretricious.’

But his pale cheeks still have the faintest tinge of pink and John grins.

\----------

They linger, talking of this and that. Sherlock is reading chemistry at Cambridge, is at the end of his first year and already his tutors are talking guardedly about graduate work at the end of his degree. He fences in his spare time, and plays the violin, and he’s thinking about learning judo; he has one older brother with whom he doesn’t get on (or so John assumes from the twist of his face as he speaks about him). In return John tells him about Harry, his older sister who’s living the work-hard-play-hard life of a City exec, about the girl she’s just started seeing – Clara – and about growing up in the north and being fascinated by the idea of London.

In reality the words are merely something to keep their mouths busy while their bodies conduct a conversation on an entirely separate level. The press of John’s knee against Sherlock’s says _I think you’re gorgeous_ and the coy tilt of Sherlock’s head towards John says _I know_. John’s body angles towards Sherlock’s, attentive to his every shift in posture, and wants to know _Will you come home with me? I’d be so good to you, I swear_ , and Sherlock’s large, graceful hands dance through the air as he illustrates a point, and say _Yes. Yes, please, I want you to_.

Sherlock’s hair is long enough to curl over his collar at the back and John’s fingers itch to touch it, to know if those curls are as soft as they look. The hollow of his throat – the suprasternal notch, as John now knows it’s called – looks just the perfect size for the pad of John’s thumb, and the dark jeans make his legs look simply miles long. John can’t help but picture them tangling with his own in bed.

Time slows down and becomes syrupy-thick, and yet there’s no hurry. On occasions like these, when the potential of sex hangs heavy in the air, John has found that it’s rather wonderful just to sit back and let it happen, rather than spoiling things by rushing in too forcefully. And so he doesn’t try for anything as crude as _Fancy a shag?_ but rather touches Sherlock’s wrist to make a point and lets his gaze linger admiringly on Sherlock’s face, wanting Sherlock to be absolutely sure of his interest.

He keeps a close eye on the level in Sherlock’s glass, and when Sherlock tips his head back to finish the last half-inch John watches his Adam’s apple bob in his long throat before knocking back the end of his own pint.

‘So,’ John says, when they’ve set their empty glasses to one side. All of Sherlock’s joints seem to have loosened since they sat down here; he slouches next to John on the steps with his legs splayed just slightly open, looking like the downfall of angels.

‘Would you like another drink,’ John says, downright _greedy_ to kiss this extraordinary man but wanting to give him options too, ‘or would you like to maybe get dinner somewhere, or–’ he can’t resist reaching out to draw a feather-light fingertip across the vulnerable inside of Sherlock’s wrist, watching the gooseflesh rise on Sherlock’s forearms, ‘–would you like to come back to my place?’

Sherlock seems to be deliberating. ‘Where is your place?’

‘Not far,’ John says breathlessly, his heart beginning to pound. ‘Ten minutes on the tube.’

‘Mmm.’ Sherlock reciprocates, sliding across John’s wrist and dipping his fingers into the cup of John’s open palm. ‘You live with other students, though.’

‘Medical students,’ John answers. He closes his hand, trapping Sherlock’s fingers. Like the rest of him they’re long and lean, but John can feel the latent strength in his hands, the musician’s calluses. ‘And only a couple. The pair of them will be out celebrating until the small hours. If they make it home at all.’

Sherlock’s fingers give a butterfly twitch in his hold and John opens his hand, releases him.

‘Go on, then.’ Sherlock’s voice is pure sex. ‘You’ve convinced me.’

‘Great,’ John says lightly, trying not to betray how giddy he suddenly feels, and inwardly reminding himself that molesting the bloke on the tube is _not_ the sort of calm, suave air he’s trying to give out here.

\----------

The journey home passes in a fog of lust, John conscious of little else other than the man slumped in the seat opposite him, licking his lower lip in a way that makes John have to look away. At least he has the consolation that his thoughts are entirely reciprocated, though: they’re barely through the front door of John’s shared flat before Sherlock crowds John up against the wall in the hallway.

‘Which one’s yours?’ Sherlock asks, his breath tickling John’s face.

John is dizzy with lust for this man, but he grips Sherlock’s waist and breathes ‘Hang on a sec.’ He raises his voice and shouts ‘Hello?’ but no-one answers and he smiles at Sherlock.

‘Just us, then,’ he murmurs. ‘Told you.’

John can’t keep his eyes off Sherlock’s mouth – slightly open in invitation, and that plump lower lip – and he slides a hand up Sherlock’s side to cup the back of his neck and encourage him to tilt his head down for a kiss.

Sherlock goes easily, swaying forward like a young willow tree, and his mouth brushes against John’s. Hesitantly at first, just a couple of brief passes to learn the shape and pressure of John’s mouth, but then he returns for a firmer press and John pushes his fingers up into Sherlock’s hair and opens his mouth in response to the tentative brush of Sherlock’s tongue.

They stand there kissing for long minutes, until Sherlock shifts to push his arousal against John’s hip and John breaks off with a gasp.

‘Jesus,’ John says, short of breath as he grasps Sherlock’s hips and eases him gently but firmly away. ‘Come on, you. Before we end up getting off without making it to bed at all.’

John catches Sherlock’s hand to wind their fingers together and Sherlock responds readily, his longer fingers twining through John’s as Sherlock follows him unhesitatingly down the hallway.

Inside his bedroom Sherlock looks around curiously; it’s student housing, therefore by definition the walls haven’t been redecorated in years and the carpet has seen multiple generations of students come and go, and to cover his nerves John says ‘Bit different from Cambridge, I know. Not so much wood panelling and priceless antiques.’

‘I don’t know about the antiques,’ Sherlock says, turning his attention back to John and stepping close. ‘That wardrobe looks as though it survived the Blitz.’

John laughs. He’s been propping up that rickety wardrobe in the corner in the hopes that it will hold together until he leaves, and Sherlock smiles and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of John’s throat.

‘And of course in Cambridge it’s silk sheets,’ Sherlock rumbles, his fingers toying with the hem of John’s T-shirt.

‘Oh dear,’ John says, trying to sound solemn while grinning wildly at the ceiling. He pulls Sherlock’s shirt-tails out of his jeans so he can press his fingertips against the hot skin in the small of Sherlock’s back. ‘However will you cope.’

Before Sherlock has time to come up with a reply John nudges him towards the bed, and Sherlock stumbles the few steps over to it before sinking down to sit on it and pull at John. John collapses next to Sherlock, smiles at him, and reaches over to draw him back into a kiss.

This is _much_ better: now they’re free to stretch out as they kiss, hands wandering. Sherlock pushes a hand up the front of John’s T-shirt to splay on his stomach and John retaliates by loosening the small, fiddly buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. His skin – once John reaches the last one and spreads the sides wide – is marble-pale from lack of sun and smooth under John’s fingertips, and he draws a line down the centre of Sherlock’s sternum and tastes Sherlock’s first soft noise in his mouth.

Touching Sherlock’s nipples gets him a shiver and a breathless noise, and John rolls Sherlock onto his back and presses his face to Sherlock’s throat, nuzzling and biting gently as he thumbs Sherlock’s nipples and Sherlock clutches at his shoulders.

‘Off,’ Sherlock grunts, tugging at the bottom of John’s T-shirt, ‘take this off, _now_.’

John leans back and half-sits up to strip off his T-shirt. He’s not overly vain but secretly he’s quite proud of his appearance: rugby playing keeps him pretty fit, and the insane work schedule of the past couple of years means that he’s not had time to sit around in the student bar drinking, and when Sherlock gets his T-shirt off he looks gratifyingly aroused.

‘They don’t have any like _you_ in Cambridge,’ Sherlock murmurs, getting an elbow under him and half-leaning up to press a palm against John’s ribs. ‘Believe me, I’d know about it if they did.’

John laughs, and tumbles Sherlock back down onto the bed for more kisses. He nuzzles that beautiful pale throat, and nips lightly at his collarbones – that are far more prominent than they ought to be – and puts his mouth on Sherlock’s nipples. John has just spent the past several years learning about all the muscles and nerves that make up the human body, and he’s smugly aware that he can actually name the nerves he’s stimulating right now. Sherlock doesn’t seem to care, however: his fingers are wound tight in John’s hair and his breathing is audible as John licks and suckles at the small rise of flesh until it’s tight under his mouth and Sherlock is arching greedily up to meet him.

‘I...’ Sherlock groans, his fingers restless in John’s hair and on his face. ‘I’d not considered the advantages of going to bed with a medical student. Oh God...’

John grins against Sherlock’s chest and lets his hand drop lower to brush the front of Sherlock’s jeans. Sherlock is hard already – his cock pushes against the fly and his hips twitch when John presses his palm to it – and John moves back up to kiss Sherlock as he rubs his hand idly against Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock is so beautifully responsive that John doesn’t want to stop doing this _ever_ : his kisses get markedly imprecise once John starts feeling him up in earnest, and his hands splay across John’s back and clutch at him.

‘God, you’re lovely,’ John murmurs to him, before inwardly kicking himself. They barely know each other – for all John knows Sherlock might be after nothing more than a quick, dirty shag before heading off to do whatever gorgeous blokes like him do when they’ve decided to come down to London on a lark. John really shouldn’t be lying here murmuring endearments as though they’re lovers of long standing, but Sherlock turns his head and arches like a pampered cat under the frank praise.

‘Can I...’ John tugs lightly at the leather tongue of Sherlock’s belt.

‘Yes.’ Sherlock’s arms unwind from John’s torso and his hands bump John’s on his belt; together they fumble the buckle open and John slowly draws Sherlock’s zip down with a keen-edged sense of anticipation. Sherlock exhales a small gasp of relief, and John dips his head to press a kiss to Sherlock’s soft mouth as he traces a fingertip lightly along the elastic waistband of Sherlock’s underwear. Sherlock lifts his chin, returning John’s kiss with added interest, but his attention veers markedly when John rubs his thumbnail down the line of hair below his navel; slowly inching closer to Sherlock’s cock.

‘Lift your hips,’ John mutters, and when Sherlock obeys John roughly tugs his jeans down to mid-thigh.

Sherlock exhales through his nose and spreads his thighs as far as the constricting jeans will allow, his eyes fluttering closed, and nips his lower lip when John finally dips his hand low enough to cup it over Sherlock’s cock. God, it feels fucking amazing: Sherlock is extravagantly, almost obscenely hard underneath soft cotton, and John measure Sherlock’s length with his fingers. He gropes Sherlock thoroughly, learning the weight and the heft of him, and Sherlock’s hands are clumsy when they land on John’s belt and start fumbling with it. John makes no move to help him. This is far too gorgeous to give up: this sight of Sherlock pink-cheeked and quivering under John’s hand, bare from throat to (almost) groin and with his cock a heavy line in his underwear.

Finally Sherlock gets past John’s button and zip and shoves a hand inelegantly into John’s jeans; John kisses the tip of Sherlock’s nose in silent praise and then almost kicks himself for acting like a village lad with his sweetheart. But Sherlock only grabs John’s shoulder, trying to tug him down into a proper kiss, and John tilts his head down to settle in for some serious kissing and groping.

Everyone’s different in bed, God knows, and John would be among the first to admit that trying to extrapolate details about someone’s sexual history based of their current behaviour is a hit and miss affair at best. But last year he went out with a French Erasmus student – for three glorious months, before she had to return to Grenoble – and he’s never been able to shake the memory of her telling him, very seriously, ‘When you go to bed with a woman, _Jean_ , you are also sleeping with everyone she has ever had sex with.’

Given the slightly incestuous nature of relationships and one-night stands among the medical student community then that wasn’t a statistic John wanted to dwell too much on, and once degrees of separation started to come into play then his mind _really_ shied away from it. At the time he had turned the thought aside with a quick joke about having to revise his number of partners, making her laugh.

But now – as John sucks lightly on Sherlock’s tongue and rubs the heel of his hand along Sherlock’s cock, making Sherlock moan and his hands stumble in their explorations of John’s body – her words come back to him and he hear a grain of truth in them.

Sherlock doesn’t strike him as someone who’s never had sex with a man before: his flirtation and response to John has been for too self-assured and confident for John to believe that this is his first time doing this. But he seems to find it hard to focus enough reciprocate as John touches him, to the point where John could believe that Sherlock isn’t, in fact, accustomed to being touched and caressed while he’s trying to get someone off. John spares an unkind thought for Sherlock’s imagined other partners, at the suspicion that they were content to lie back and let Sherlock do all the work, and vows that before they’re finished this evening then he’ll see Sherlock completely undone.

Sherlock seems to like it when John mixes shallow, biting kisses with deep ones and John obliges him. He stays on the outside of Sherlock’s underwear but John gropes him thoroughly, cupping his balls, pushing them up against the root of Sherlock’s cock and thrilling at the hitch of Sherlock’s breath, and rubs his hand along Sherlock’s cock, following the cues of the tiny back and forth of Sherlock’s hips. John finds the head of Sherlock’s cock in his underwear, where the fabric is starting to be wet, and lavishes attention on it until Sherlock outright _moans_ into his mouth.

‘Yeah, that’s it,’ John encourages him, pulling back just far enough to murmur the words in between kisses to Sherlock’s mouth. ‘There you are. God, you’re so hard under there.’

Sherlock gasps something incoherent in reply, his hips straining up against John’s hand, and John smothers it with more kisses. He works one hand under Sherlock’s head, burying his fingers in those thick curls, and lets his other hand follow the hitch and grind of Sherlock’s hips, rubbing at him in the rhythm that Sherlock seems to like best.

It’s all very well but John is impatient to get Sherlock properly naked, to touch him and kiss him and maybe give him a blowjob, because John doesn’t yet know how Sherlock looks and sounds when he’s getting his cock sucked but God, he wants to find out. Sherlock is so arousing like this, however, that John can’t quite bring himself to stop what he’s doing. Not that it matters, there’s no rush, and John continues kissing Sherlock breathless and playing with his cock until Sherlock suddenly reaches down to grab John’s forearm hard.

The abruptness of it is startling, and John rears back as Sherlock grits out ‘ _John_.’

Sherlock’s face is crumpled, almost upset, and John blinks, a suspicion forming in his mind, but he only gets as far as ‘Um, d’you need a minute? Because you really look like you’re about to–’ before Sherlock gives a sort of shuddering heave and the cotton under John’s hand is suddenly warm and wet. Sherlock groans low in his throat as he shakes and John is too dumbstruck to do anything other than lie there and watch, until Sherlock’s grip on his forearm slackens and he twists his face away.

The whole thing, from Sherlock grabbing John’s forearm to now, can’t have taken more than thirty seconds, and John is still reeling slightly.

‘You...’ he begins, stupid with lust for this man. ‘Um... did you just...’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock’s eyes are tightly shut; after voicing that single word his lips compress themselves into a hard line, humiliation etched into the furrow between his brows. ‘Sorry.’

Despite Sherlock’s confidence earlier John has the distinct impression that it he says the wrong thing now then this will be the last he’ll ever see of him, and so he coaxes Sherlock’s face back around to plant a kiss on one scarlet cheek.

‘That,’ he says, punctuating his words with kisses, ‘was. Bloody. Stunning.’ He kisses the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. ‘ _Fuck_ , you’re sexy. How long before I can make you do it again?’

Sherlock’s eyes blink open and he stares at John for a long moment before the lines around his mouth soften.

‘Take these off,’ he murmurs, in lieu of an answer, hooking a finger into the waistband of John’s jeans, and John wriggles gladly to comply. He pulls away from Sherlock to sit up and makes short work of his boots, jeans, and underwear, and turns back to Sherlock to shuck him out of his clothes.

‘Look at you,’ John murmurs, peeling Sherlock’s messy underwear and still-pristine jeans off him and throwing them over the side of the bed. He strokes his fingertips over the fine, pale skin at the crook of Sherlock’s elbow, pretending not to notice when Sherlock’s hands flutter down to his hips, as though to cover his penis lying soft and flushed against his thigh. ‘God, you’re lovely.’

In John’s experience the really stunning people are usually dull as ditchwater, and sometimes arrogant with it; so used to attracting people with their looks that they’ve never had to bother cultivating a personality. But Sherlock only smiles at John’s compliments, a delightful mix of surprised and pleased, and it makes John want to see that smile as often as possible. So he shifts farther up the bed and coaxes Sherlock to join him, and spends a long time simply stroking his hands down Sherlock’s body, lavishing kisses on all that beautiful skin.

This feels like more than just a one-night stand, this soft touching and stroking and nibbling, obsessively kissing every bit of skin he can reach, and John wonders fleetingly if it’s too much, if he’s presuming too much on the strength of only a few hours’ acquaintance. But every time he pulls back enough to see Sherlock’s face then Sherlock is smiling and that’s good: sex should be fun, after all, and Sherlock has the air of someone who doesn’t smile or laugh nearly enough. And so John tickles his fingers lightly across the backs of Sherlock’s knees, and presses hot kisses over his alarmingly visible ribs while muttering ‘My God, don’t they _feed_ you in Cambridge? I thought it was all lolling about on silken cushions while being spoon-fed caviar and foie gras.’

Sherlock arches voluptuously under John’s hands, lifting a leg to rub his calf along John’s hip, and sighs ‘Oh yes, it is, but only on days ending in a y,’ with such seriousness in his voice that John snorts with laughter, pressing his giggles into the softness of Sherlock’s stomach.

Sherlock’s hands aren’t idle. They roam over John’s body in turn, petting and exploring, and John is sure to be vocal in his appreciation, encouraging Sherlock with sighs and soft moans when those big hands find a sensitive spot, and nuzzling into all the delicious-smelling hollows of Sherlock’s body. Sherlock reaches down to touch John’s cock and John bites gently at Sherlock’s collarbone in encouragement, but moves away after a few minutes in favour of sliding down the bed to nose at Sherlock’s hip.

‘Don’t you want me to...’ Sherlock says, leaning up to reach for John and looking uncertain, and John nibbles the soft skin over the iliac crest.

‘Yeah,’ he murmurs. ‘But I’ve got an idea. Can I?’

‘Of course,’ Sherlock says, lying back down and looking intrigued, and John looks at Sherlock’s cock. He’s been paying close attention to it while they’ve been snogging, feeling it thickening slowly against his thigh, and now Sherlock is most of the way hard again and John runs his palms up Sherlock’s thighs and pushes them wider in greedy anticipation.

‘There’s condoms and lubricant in the bedside table,’ he says, dipping his head to lap at Sherlock’s inner thighs, feeling Sherlock’s muscles bunch and tighten under his palms as Sherlock squirms. ‘Pass them to me.’

Sherlock does so, fumbling them down the bed towards John, and John takes his time applying lubricant across his fingers and palm, knowing that Sherlock is watching. Sherlock’s hips jump slightly when John takes Sherlock’s cock into his fist, and he pulls at it a few times, until he’s coaxed a gasp from Sherlock.

‘What are you...’ Sherlock says, his voice shaking the tiniest bit, ‘why did you need the condom, it’s unnecessary if you’re just going to be...’

‘No it’s not,’ John says, although he tugs on Sherlock’s cock a few more times and watches Sherlock’s bony knees twitch. ‘You’ll see. Open that for me, would you?’

Sherlock’s deft fingers have gone clumsy with lust, and watching him try to open it John thinks that he wouldn’t have done a much worse job himself. But finally Sherlock passes the condom to him; John murmurs his thanks and presses it to the head of Sherlock’s cock before he unrolls it down the shaft, making Sherlock’s thighs quiver where they’re splayed either side of John.

‘Now then,’ John murmurs, and grips the base of the condom hard to stop it sliding off. If they were planning on penetrative sex John would have removed most of the lube with a tissue, because nothing kills the mood like losing the condom partway through, but with his hand to hold it in place they should be okay.

John glances up at Sherlock and finds him watching, all pink cheeks and tumbled hair and enormous eyes. John quirks a smile. ‘Alright there?’

Sherlock nods silently, and John dips his head and sucks the tip of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth, listening greedily for Sherlock’s little gasp. Everything tastes of latex; it’s not John’s favourite option but he’s just spent years learning about various horrible STDs and he’s not about to do this bare with some bloke he’s only just met (frankly it’s a miracle he hasn’t been put off sex permanently).

Even if said bloke doesn’t give the impression of having been with many people: Sherlock’s hips twitch under John’s ministrations, and when John cranes his neck to look up he sees that Sherlock has his eyes squeezed shut, both hands gripping the sheets under his body as he chews on his lower lip. John presses his tongue firmly against the head, and lets Sherlock’s cock push in and out of his mouth; doing this with a condom in the way isn’t quite as good as doing it with nothing, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to care. One of his hands migrates to John’s nape to rest on his skin, sweaty-palmed and restless, and after a few minutes Sherlock arches underneath him with a helpless noise, drawing his knees up and spreading them wide to give John more room.

John responds with enthusiasm. This isn’t how he wants to get Sherlock off for the second time but Sherlock is clearly enjoying it so much that John lingers over it until Sherlock’s heels are pressing urgently either side of his ribcage.

‘Right,’ he says, leaning up. Sherlock’s cock is fully, gorgeously hard now, and John gently eases the condom off him.

‘What...’ Sherlock opens his eyes, looking half-wrecked. ‘Why, what have you... do you want me to do that for you?’

Sherlock doesn’t wait for an answer before starting to slide down the bed, but John grips a bony shin and stops him.

‘Not quite. I thought we could do something else.’

So saying, he slides up the bed to rest his weight on Sherlock, Sherlock’s splayed thighs sliding along John’s torso until Sherlock can twine his legs around John’s hips. Sherlock kisses him as soon as John gets close enough, wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders and demonstrating very thoroughly just how much Sherlock enjoyed the impromptu blowjob, and John smiles into their kiss.

‘Put your hands down between us,’ John murmurs, ‘and take hold of us both.’

‘ _Oh_.’ Sherlock’s expression says that John is a genius, and John catches his breath as Sherlock slicks his fingers and reaches down to take both of their erections in his grasp.

John flexes his hips, pushing into Sherlock’s grip slightly, and groans slightly at the feel of Sherlock’s cock straining up hard against his, and Sherlock’s long, clever fingers around them both. Sherlock rubs his thumb across the heads of their cocks the next time John thrusts, and shivers a little underneath John.

Kissing while trying to get a rhythm going is tricky but John leans down to bite soft kisses into Sherlock’s mouth as he moves, carefully fucking the tight, slick circle of Sherlock’s hands and Sherlock arches and sighs and makes all sorts of gorgeous noises beneath him. He can tell when Sherlock gets close: Sherlock’s legs squeeze John’s hips, his heels digging hard into the backs of John’s thighs, and he sucks his lower lip between his teeth and bites down hard on it.

‘Nngh.’ Slowly, Sherlock lets his lip pull free, and he gasps at John. ‘Oh. Oh God. I’m... it’s almost–’

‘Yeah.’ John kisses Sherlock, dipping his head to kiss along Sherlock’s throat when Sherlock tilts his head back to gasp frantically. ‘Yeah, go on, do it.’

Sherlock gives a sharp noise, his hands pulling harder and faster on their cocks before warmth streaks low on John’s stomach and Sherlock’s face twists in pleasure.

John says nothing as Sherlock comes, only presses kisses to his cheek and temple and grits his teeth against the urge to reach down and finish himself off. But Sherlock, thank goodness, is quick on the uptake: as soon as he’s finished shaking under John he lets go of himself and wraps both hands around John.

‘Are you close?’ he purrs at John, his voice gone deeper with orgasm. ‘Ready to come?’

‘Yeah,’ John groans harshly. Sherlock’s hands are executing a wicked little twisting pull around the head of his cock; he’s so close he can almost _taste_ it, and sure enough a few moments later it’s his turn to shudder and tense as his come streaks Sherlock’s hips and stomach. John holds himself up as long as he can but eventually his arms and shoulders refuse to cooperate any longer; he just manages to control his collapse so that he ends up crashing out next to Sherlock rather than directly on top of him, and for a while he closes his eyes and focuses on nothing more than breathing, and enjoying the tiny aftershocks that run through him.

After a few moments Sherlock’s legs scissor and he stirs next to John; John turns his head to look at Sherlock, whose face and chest are still gorgeously flushed and whose sweat is dampening the tiny curls of hair at his temples.

‘So...’ John begins, still breathless, before trailing off. He’s not felt nervous around Sherlock all evening, too busy being dazzled and captivated, but now there’s a quiver of uncertainty in his stomach. Now that they’ve been to bed together will Sherlock want to leave? John isn’t quite finished talking to this fascinating man, but he doesn’t want to look clingy and so he hovers precariously between _Stay, tell me about yourself, I want to know everything,_ and _D’you want me to call you a taxi?_

‘I... that was fantastic,’ John says, because God, it _was_. He’s thirsty, in the way that really good sex often leaves his mouth dry, but he’s not entirely sure his legs will hold him if he gets up to get a drink of water. He licks his lips, and blurts ‘You... um... d’you want a drink?’

He’s kicking himself inwardly – smooth, Watson, very smooth – but he needn’t bother because Sherlock clearly isn’t listening. Instead he’s staring across at the shelves above John’s desk, frowning slightly.

‘Do you have a crush on this Bond actor?’ he asks.

‘What?’ John is momentarily thrown. ‘Which one?’

He’ll admit to fancying Sean Connery or Timothy Dalton, if pressed, but definitely not Roger Moore or George Lazenby. After all, he’s just made Sherlock come – _twice_ , thank you very much – and he’s not ready for Sherlock, all post-coital, to stop looking at him like John personally hung the moon and polished the sun.

‘The _actor_ ,’ Sherlock says, as though John is being deliberately dense just to annoy him. He extends a long, bare arm to jab a finger in the direction of John’s videos. ‘James Bond. You have several of his films.’

John is momentarily distracted by the twist of black hair in Sherlock’s armpit, before Sherlock’s words sink in. ‘The actor... Sherlock, have you honestly never heard of James Bond?’

The faint scowl Sherlock gives him is answer enough; John is so shocked he doesn’t stop to think before blurting out ‘Where the hell have you _been_?’

Sherlock’s frown deepens and he pulls back slightly; it’s a barely perceptible movement but the temperature in the room plummets several degrees and John bites his tongue and quickly says ‘James Bond is the _character_ , and every now and then they change the actor who plays him. Bit of a running... you know. A continuity thing, now. It’s just a silly thing, it’s not important.’

Christ, but John must definitely be smitten, he’s just called James Bond ‘silly’ and ‘not important’, and just to finish completely torpedoing his image as a suave Lothario he reaches out to wind a curl around his forefinger and adds ‘Stay and watch one with me? We can have dinner, and watch a Bond film, and you can see what you think. Yeah?’

Slowly Sherlock melts back against the mattress and smiles tentatively at John. ‘Yes. I’d like that.’

‘Great.’ John’s words tumble over each other in relief. ‘That’s great, so what d’you want for dinner? There’s a Chinese place near here that’s pretty good, or pizza, um, or there’s a curry place but they don’t deliver. Which is fine, I mean, _obviously_ it’s fine, I can always nip out to pick it up–’

‘Chinese.’ Sherlock’s baritone rumble cutes him off, and his lips quirk upwards a fraction. They’re still flushed and the tiniest bit swollen from kissing, and John can’t help but reach out to cup Sherlock’s jaw and touch a gentle thumb to the corner of his mouth as Sherlock repeats ‘Chinese is fine,’ and turns his head to kiss the pad of John’s thumb.

‘Chinese,’ John echoes, helpless in the face of Sherlock’s own peculiar magnetism. ‘Right. Yeah.’

Sherlock grins at him suddenly, wicked and amused, and John coughs and tells himself to stop acting like a lovestruck idiot.

‘I’ll go and get the menu then,’ John mutters, and sidles out of bed.

His boxers are tangled and knotted up in his jeans and he shakes them loose and puts them on. It’ll do for a quick trip down to the kitchen, when no-one’s around, and he returns with a choice of three menus for Sherlock to peruse.

The rumpled navy sheets of John’s bed make Sherlock look like some sort of sexy, naked centrefold, and John’s face heats as he perches on the edge of the mattress.

Eyeing the crumpled menus in John’s hand, Sherlock quirks one of his oddly thick eyebrows. ‘And here I was thinking that medical students all ate healthily.’

John huffs a laugh and drops the menus on Sherlock’s stomach. ‘Medical students are the _worst_. Here.’ The mess at his groin is starting to prickle and annoy him, and John rummages in his chest of drawers for a clean pair of jogging bottoms. ‘I’m going to take a quick shower. Have a look and decide what you’d like, and I’ll be back in five minutes.’

Showers in the Army are going to be quick affairs, to say the least, and John has been getting himself into the habit of speed. So he’s proud to see that it’s actually almost five minutes on the dot that he wanders back into his bedroom, towelling the last dampness out of his hair. Sherlock has made it out of bed and is standing – the whole, glorious naked six feet of him – by John’s shelves, considering John’s videos.

John takes a moment to admire the view.

_God_ , but Sherlock’s arse is a sight to behold even without taking into account its owner’s miles of pale skin and dark curls and wiry strength. It’s pert and round and looks as though it would fit into John’s hands just perfectly, and so John tests his theory out: he steps in behind Sherlock and slides his hands down Sherlock’s lean flanks and around to the back, cupping Sherlock’s bum as he nuzzles the back of Sherlock’s shoulder and asks ‘Decided what you want?’

‘Mmm.’ Sherlock leans back against John slightly before stepping out of John’s hands and going to rummage in his jeans, and John sighs a little at the loss before digging in his chest of drawers for a spare pair of pyjama bottoms. They’ll be a bit short on Sherlock’s long legs but no matter, since John is hardly going to object to a flash of Sherlock’s ankles.

The next instant Sherlock presses himself warmly against John’s back, arms encircling John’s waist so Sherlock can pluck the pyjamas out of John’s hands as he rumbles in John’s ear, ‘Are these for me?’

‘Yeah.’ John tries to turn but finds himself held in place, and his stomach flutters and swoops giddily at the pressure of Sherlock’s chest against his back. ‘I thought they’d be more comfortable than your jeans.’

‘Thank you.’ The pyjamas are whisked away before Sherlock returns to press the takeaway menu of choice into John’s hands. ‘Here. Get things you like and let’s share.’ A wallet joins the menu. ‘Let me get this.’

‘Oh no,’ John says reflexively, ‘no really, it’s fine–’

Sherlock nips his shoulder in reproof and John shuts up, lust pounding through him in a sudden shocking surge. ‘No use arguing, I’ve decided. I want to.’

It’s a kind gesture, and John decides to take it in the spirit in which it’s meant. But he can’t resist adding, ‘And you always get what you want, do you?’

Sherlock hums into his ear, although his voice is so deep that it’s more like listening to a large cat purr. ‘What do you think?’

The next moment the warm press along John’s back is gone and John turns, a teasing reply on the tip of his tongue, to see the flash of Sherlock’ bare arse as he filches John’s towel off the door handle and wanders down the hall in search of the bathroom.

With Sherlock safely out of the way John quickly calls the Chinese takeaway to place their order before engaging in the sort of frantic tidying he generally does before going out for a night on the town, if he’s hoping to bring someone home. He’s fairly tidy, as a rule, but all the same: he takes the few dirty plates and mugs down to the kitchen and quickly washes them up, his clothes on the drying rack are whisked away into their proper drawers and the rack put away, and his scattered revision notes and textbooks are stacked haphazardly in a corner.

John even flings open the bedroom window; the room smells, not to put too fine a point on it, like two men have just had enthusiastic sex in it, and while Sherlock doesn’t seem the overly dainty type there’s nevertheless a certain fastidiousness about him.

The faint noise of the shower shuts off just as John is groping under his bed for an errant dirty sock, and when Sherlock returns to the bedroom barely five minutes later the smirk on his face says that he’s well aware of what’s been going on in his absence.

‘Which film, then?’ is all Sherlock says, as John tries not to stare too hard at the wet curls falling in Sherlock’s face, or the mouth-watering contours of his collar bones, or the tantalising slant of his hipbones exposed by the precariously low ride of borrowed pyjama bottoms.

John clears his throat and turns to his shelf. ‘Right. Um...’

After a few moments’ thought he settles for _From Russia with Love_ , and sets it up before turning back to the bed to find that Sherlock has commandeered every single pillow and the duvet into a nest at the head of the bed, on which he reclines like a young emperor.

John rolls his eyes as the opening credits start.

‘Nice try,’ he says, climbing onto the mattress to poke Sherlock in the ribs and steal a pillow off him when he squirms.

Sherlock tries to retaliate but John plays rugby and isn’t above fighting dirty, and after a brief tussle he has enough pillows to be comfortable and settles back to watch the opening credits. Sherlock lounges next to him, one leg lolling heavily against both of John’s; he appears to be concentrating entirely on the film, and John startles when Sherlock shifts and complains, ‘I don’t have enough pillows.’

John has still left Sherlock the lion’s share but nonetheless it’s on the tip of his tongue to offer Sherlock one of the ones John took for himself. He’s in the act of sitting up to reach for the one behind his head, in fact, when Sherlock slithers down the bed and squirms forward to rest his damp head on John’s shoulder.

‘I’ll have to lie here, if you’re going to hog them all,’ Sherlock announces, and John’s offer dies on his tongue as Sherlock rests a leg across John’s thighs.

‘So you will,’ John agrees, resting his chin on the top of Sherlock’s head and grinning wildly. He puts an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. ‘Since I’m such a terrible host that I’m not going to offer you any.’

Sherlock gives a put-upon sigh even as the backs of his long fingers brush idly down John’s stomach, and John presses his palm to the warm muscles of Sherlock’s shoulder as Sherlock settles against him.

It’s startlingly easy to lie here like this with Sherlock, as though they’ve known each other for far longer than they actually have, and John has seen this film enough times that his mind starts to wander. Sherlock’s head is heavy on John’s shoulder and John can smell his own shower gel in Sherlock’s hair; the sprawl of his leg shows off the curve of his arse and John’s attention is drawn to a cluster of four freckles halfway down Sherlock’s bicep, highlighting the creamy paleness of his skin. John presses his mouth to the crown of Sherlock’s head, inhaling slightly, and Sherlock’s hand resumes its gentle stroking of his fingers down John’s stomach.

There’s just the tiniest hint of intent in his caress, and John holds his breath and eases his knees apart fractionally. He’s rewarded with the slightest dip of Sherlock’s fingertips beneath the waistband of his jogging bottoms, and exhales a slow, heavy breath as heat begins to slide under his skin, his cock stirring.

The sharp trill of the doorbell makes John jump and then laugh at himself and, the spell broken, he eases himself out from under Sherlock to get up. The delivery man is unruffled by John’s attire – or partial lack of it – and John pays from Sherlock’s wallet before collecting some cutlery on the way back to the bedroom. Dinner is a companionable affair: they eat straight out of the boxes and pass them back and forth, and Sherlock eats as though he hasn’t seen food for a week.

Afterwards, stomachs full, they put the empty cartons on the floor next to the bed and settle in to watch the rest of the film. John half-holds his breath, hoping that this will prompt a return of Sherlock’s head on his shoulder and those idle, exploratory touches, but is disappointed when Sherlock elects to lie between his legs and recline against him, treating John for all the world like his own personal armchair. His disappointment is short-lived, though, once it becomes apparent that food has left Sherlock sated and sensual and not at all in the mood to lie quietly and watch the film.

Sharp shoulder blades dig into John’s chest as Sherlock squirms until he’s comfortable, before starting to idly trail his fingers up John’s thighs and then down to trace lightly across and around John’s kneecaps. Without saying a word, John reciprocates: he cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, smoothing the curls back off his face, before sending his fingers down to stroke lightly across Sherlock’s eyebrows, the bridges of his nose, his cheekbones, and his full, irresistible mouth. Sherlock’s breath is hot on John’s fingers when John touches his lips, and after a few seconds Sherlock reaches up to catch hold of his wrist and slowly draws one of John’s fingers into his mouth.

He licks and sucks at it, nibbling gently at the tip, and John’s head thumps back against the wall and he groans under his breath. Any possibility of this _not_ ending in sex has just gone straight out of the window, and John eases his other hand down between his stomach and Sherlock’s spine so he can adjust his erection until it lies up against his belly rather than pushed awkwardly to one side.

The movement makes Sherlock smile around John’s finger; by way of retaliation John replaces his finger with his thumbs – first one, then the other – and lets Sherlock get them nice and wet before moving down to draw them gently across Sherlock’s nipples. Sherlock inhales sharply at this and so John does it again, rubbing at them and catching them between his fingers until Sherlock has started to arch up into his touch and his nipples are tight under John’s fingers.

Sherlock has drawn his knees up slightly to press his heels into the bed and his big hands are gripping John’s thighs firmly. John looks further down and can see that Sherlock is most of the way hard inside his borrowed pyjamas, his cock tenting the fabric, and John bends his head to nuzzle the delicious-smelling whorls and cowlicks on the crown of Sherlock’s head.

‘Something tells me you’re not all that interested in this film,’ he says quietly, letting Sherlock hear the smile in his voice.

This prompts a breathless, agreeing sort of noise, and Sherlock catches one of John’s hands to draw it down and press John’s palm against his erection. John’s heart thumps hard at the feel of Sherlock’s cock stiff and heavy under the fabric, but he cranes his neck to press a clumsy kiss to Sherlock’s temple and takes his hand away to touch Sherlock’s nipples again.

‘Well,’ John says, fumbling for the remote to mute the television, not wanting to miss a single one of Sherlock’s responses, his heart beginning to pound as Sherlock catches John’s hand and mouths lightly at his fingertips, ‘this was never my favourite one anyway.’

\----------

Afterwards John’s body is heavy, sated with food and sex in a way that he hasn’t felt in, oh, far too long. Studying for finals has left him with no spare time to spend pursuing anyone, and barely enough opportunities to wolf down hurried meals of pasta or beans on toast before getting back to his books.

For a long moment John simply closes his eyes and drifts pleasantly, stroking Sherlock’s hair where Sherlock’s head is pillowed on his chest with the same idle contentment he would pet a cat, but when he feels himself starting to doze he stirs.

‘Bed for me, I think,’ John says, stretching gently and relishing the simple, animal pleasure of tiredness after sex. His hands leave Sherlock’s hair reluctantly when Sherlock sits up.

‘Yes.’ Sherlock shuffles over to sit on the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the floor. ‘You’ll be wanting to sleep.’

John looks at Sherlock’s back, his shoulders slightly hunched. It gives nothing away, and nor does the carefully neutral tone of Sherlock’s voice, but he glances over at the bundled heap of his jeans and John decides to test a theory.

‘Stay,’ he says impulsively. It’s not impulsive for _him_ – the knowledge that Sherlock doesn’t have anywhere else to be has been bubbling away quietly at the back of John’s mind for hours now, almost since Sherlock kissed him and certainly since they began watching the film – but Sherlock turns his head quickly to meet John’s gaze.

Surprise makes Sherlock look suddenly young, caught off-guard, and he offers awkwardly, ‘You don’t have to... I assumed I’d be getting a hotel room somewhere, or–’

‘Stay,’ John repeats, and stretches out a foot to poke Sherlock gently in the hip. ‘I’d like it. If you want to.’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock is gorgeous when he smiles like that, and John is helpless to do anything other than smile back. ‘Alright.’

‘Great,’ John says, fatuously, and gets out of bed to find a spare toothbrush.

Settling into a comfortable position for sleeping, however, is rather easier said than done. Sherlock seems possessed of more elbows and knees and sharp corners than any one person should rightly own, and his ridiculous hair seems to get into John’s nose and mouth no matter how they try and arrange themselves. But at last Sherlock is limp and heavy against him and John stares up through the darkness to his dimly visible ceiling with Sherlock’s drowsing breath tickling his shoulder. This really wasn’t how he thought his evening would go, but John isn’t complaining: it beats listening to Mike’s drunken rendition of _Come On Eileen_ – a staple of many a Saturday night – and this Sherlock bloke is the most unexpected but wonderful surprise to happen to John in a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning John wakes first, with a pleasant ache in his body that reminds him of last night, and when he turns his head to see Sherlock still fast asleep next to him he can’t stop a wide grin. Sherlock’s hair, scattered wildly on the pillow, is so curly that John wonders how on earth he manages to tame it in the morning. Perhaps it’s just the effect of sleeping on it while damp that has made it so exuberant, and John can’t resist reaching over to wind the tip of a curl around his fingertip.

John could have _sworn_ he didn’t make any noise, or pull at the lock of hair he’s touching, but Sherlock almost immediately begins to stir and John snatches his hand back.

From that point it’s ever so slightly awkward, in the way of mornings after everywhere, until Sherlock – sorting through his clothes – finds his tequila-spattered shirt, and the underwear he ruined last night. Even though the latter are entirely Sherlock’s fault, John finds himself grinning in the face of Sherlock’s narrow-eyed glare, and offering to lend Sherlock a shirt and to take him out to see London while he puts Sherlock’s things through the wash.

The offer makes Sherlock’s face light up; John is perhaps a touch surprised that something so conventional as sight-seeing has the power to please such an extraordinary bloke but he’s too distracted with the embarrassed flush at the tips of Sherlock’s ears as he clutches his bundle of dirty clothes (clearly remembering how they got that way).

However it turns out that Sherlock’s idea of being a tourist in London isn’t very conventional at all. They’re standing on the Hungerford Bridge with John pointing out over the river and dutifully intoning ‘Houses of Parliament... Big Ben... London Eye...’ when he notices that Sherlock isn’t paying a scrap of attention to what he’s saying. In fact he’s looking in the other direction entirely.

‘Erm...’ John stumbles to a halt, suddenly acutely self-conscious at the realisation that Sherlock looks _bored_ , and Sherlock wanders over to the other side of the bridge, ignoring the pointed looks from the pedestrians forced to detour around him.

‘Do you know how many people have committed suicide by throwing themselves in the Thames?’ Sherlock demands, when John comes to stand next to him. Sherlock leans far out over the railing, and John fights an urge to catch hold of the back of Sherlock’s borrowed shirt, actually clenching his fist when Sherlock leans even farther to look down at grey-green water slapping the base of the support pillars, with the breeze ruffling his curls and bringing colour to his cheeks.

John is struck anew by how gorgeous Sherlock is, his brain too stuck on _God, I had sex with him last night_ to watch what his mouth is saying, and he blurts ‘Christ, you’re not _that_ bored, are you?’

Sherlock looks at him, startled for a moment, before laughing. ‘No, no, not at all.’

Yeah, right. John raises an eyebrow at him, unconvinced, and Sherlock has grace to look away.

‘But don’t you think it’s fascinating?’ Sherlock persists. ‘All the bodies and evidence that have gone in there over the years?’

_God, how morbid_ , is John’s initial reaction, but Sherlock is looking at him almost pleadingly, as though he _wants_ John’s approval and agreement, and John bites his tongue.

‘There’s even an entire typeface down there,’ Sherlock continues, ‘did you know that?’

‘How d’you mean?’ John asks, engaged despite himself.

‘Back in 1917, Thomas Cobden-Sanderson brought along the master plates of the Doves typeface and threw them in,’ Sherlock says, rapt once more by the Thames dividing and purling past the prow of a boat chugging upriver. ‘It’s classed as a lost typeface, gone forever. Buried at sea.’

‘I... didn’t know that,’ John says, fascinated.

Sherlock turns to him.

‘Show me the _real_ London,’ he says, catching hold of John’s hand impulsively and giving it a little tug, as though to set off then and there. ‘Come on. All of this,’ he waves a hand towards Westminster, dismissing over a thousand years of English history, ‘this is boring. I’ve heard it all at school, and it was dull enough then.’

And so John says ‘Fuck it,’ to the sedate, conventional – and yes, alright, perhaps just a bit dull – day he had planned and takes Sherlock on a rather more erratic one. He takes Sherlock to the Hunterian Museum, and then out to Jack the Ripper’s old hunting ground of the East End, and ends up in a tiny cafe in Golden Square, that serves coffee strong enough to make John’s toes curl appreciatively and the best cinnamon rolls John has ever tasted. Sherlock thinks so too, from the way he proceeds to tear his roll into pieces and then savours each bit with closed eyes and much licking of fingers.

John’s face warms as he watches Sherlock. The shirt John has lent him fits well enough across the shoulders – it ought not to, but John has broad shoulders from playing rugby and Sherlock, for all his height, is skinny – but it’s short in the arms. Sherlock has solved this problem by unbuttoning the cuffs and turning his sleeves up, and John watches the muscles of Sherlock’s forearms flex under his skin and can’t seem to drag his mind away from the fact that that’s his shirt Sherlock is wearing, that Sherlock is going to have to come back to John’s place to retrieve his own, and that when he takes it off then it will smell like him.

Sherlock sucks lusciously at his thumb to remove some clinging flakes of pastry, takes a mouthful of coffee, and sighs happily. He looks at the rest of the roll on his plate; he has about a third left and oh God John can’t, he really _can’t_ , sit through more of Sherlock in the throes of gustatory ecstasy, and to cover his discomfort he jokes weakly ‘You realise you’re going to have to propose to that thing if you molest it any more.’

‘What?’ Sherlock looks at first surprised, and then self-conscious. His expression dims a little, as though someone has just turned the lights down, and that’s not what John intended at all.

He knocks his ankle against Sherlock’s under the table as Sherlock pushes his plate away, wiping his fingers silently on a serviette and not meeting John’s eyes, and when Sherlock looks up, John says ‘I just meant that... you know... this is a family cafe. And watching you like that is making me want to do... stuff... to you. Things that I can’t think about in a family cafe.’

‘Oh.’ Sherlock glances up at his from under his eyelashes, smiling a small smile, and John can’t help but think of the unselfconsciousness of beautiful adults who, just a few years ago, were greasy-haired, spotty, gangly teenagers, and whose self-image hasn’t quite caught up with the physical changes.

Sherlock, with his curious cat’s eyes, and his mess of dark hair that makes John want to touch, and his big hands with their long fingers. If John squints, he fancies he can imagine how Sherlock must have looked as a teenager: all elbows and knees and too-large feet, and he–

‘What?’ Sherlock demands. His fingers ghost over his mouth and chin, a fleeting but self-conscious brush. ‘You’re looking, what is it, why are you looking? Do I have crumbs on my face?’

The denial is on the tip of John’s tongue but then the thought occurs to him that he’d be mad to pass up a chance to touch Sherlock and he says instead ‘Lean forward.’

Sherlock does so and John reaches out, resting his palm on Sherlock’s jaw and feeling the faintest beginnings of stubble, and passes his thumb gently across Sherlock’s mouth, lingering over his lower lip.

By the time John draws his hand back Sherlock’s expression is caught somewhere between aroused and suspicious.

‘There was no crumb, was there,’ he says, raising a hand to touch his mouth.

‘Not even a tiny one.’ Sherlock’s cheeks are pink, and John grins cheerily. ‘But did you really think I was going to turn down an offer like that?’

And Sherlock’s eyes slide away as he picks up his coffee, but John can see that he’s smiling.

\----------

It’s all rather unexpected, but then again Sherlock is turning out to be generally a contradiction in himself.

If John were being entirely honest, he hadn’t been completely surprised to find Sherlock looking bored on the bridge that morning. Deep down, he had expected Sherlock to be one of those posh types, who weren’t happy unless they were doing something stupidly expensive and exclusive like a country weekend at someone’s family mansion, or polo, or jetting off to Paris, but now that John has taken him off the beaten track then Sherlock has perked up and easily pleased by everything John suggests.

Sherlock agrees to a walk in Hyde Park with boyish enthusiasm, and spends the whole time with his head bowed towards John’s ear, murmuring observations about their fellow pedestrians that are at best risqué, and at worst border on character assassination. His breath tickles John’s ear and throat and John fights the urge to shiver, lest Sherlock misinterpret it and think his proximity is unwelcome.

‘What about me?’ John says, pausing for a moment in the shade of an enormous plane tree. He turns to face Sherlock, holding his arms out from his sides slightly. ‘If you just saw me in the park, and we’d never met. What would you say about me?’

‘Hmm.’ Sherlock presses his palms together, his face lighting up, and he taps his forefingers thoughtfully against his lower lip as he considers. ‘Hardly a fair question, since you’ve just told me all the immediate points about yourself last night, but even without that then it’s obvious you’re a medical student. One sibling – a sister – but that’s easy, as is the fact that your parents don’t live nearby.

‘You recently had sex–’ John, alarmed, is about to ask how Sherlock can tell and whether it’s obvious to everyone, before realising he’s being teased and laughing a little, ‘–and you...’

Sherlock’s face changes, and he falters before finishing ‘You’re going to sign up to the Army.’

John blinks. He’s not mentioned that to anyone yet, not even his rugby mates; of all his friends, he suspects they would be the ones most likely to understand the desire to be part of a team, working together for something that’s greater than the sum of its parts. And it’s more than a passing urge; his signature is already on the papers and he’s just waiting to learn his start date this autumn.

‘Yeah,’ John says quietly. ‘I’ve... been considering it, yeah. You know. Making a difference, and all that. And that was amazing, by the way.’

Sherlock shrugs and waves a hand dismissively. John hopes he’s not going to be an arse about the Army thing; when he had told his mates from home that he was off to study medicine then one or two of them had been odd about it. As though John’s drive to help people was somehow a deliberate belittlement of their own more modest ambitions.

Hoping to draw Sherlock out and get him talking again, John nudges him gently. ‘What about you?’

‘Me?’ Sherlock shoves his hands in his pockets, starts walking again. ‘I don’t know. My tutors are already talking about post-graduate work but it seems so... restrictive. Publish or perish. Locked into endless rounds of funding applications.’ He kicks at a small clod of dirt on the path, mouth twisting restlessly. ‘And Cambridge is so dull, so conventional. Whereas _London_...’ His mouth lifts in a smile. ‘London is where life happens.’

‘Well there you are, then,’ John says, bumping Sherlock’s arm companionably with his own. ‘Move to the capital. Job done. What would you want to do? What sort of thing are you interested in?’

‘ _Everything_ ,’ Sherlock says, his eyes gleaming like a magpie’s. ‘Nothing is uninteresting, if viewed with the right frame of mind. Did you know that it’s possible to tell a computer programmer by his tie, or an airline pilot by her left thumb? And that a person’s cuffs and shoes holds more information about them than their CV.’ 

‘I... no.’ John laughs aloud in amused delight. ‘No, I had no idea. That’s brilliant, but I’m not sure when I’d ever be called upon to use that knowledge, though.’

Sherlock gives him a funny little sideways glance and John stays quiet, hoping to encourage him to speak. But whatever it is, it seems Sherlock isn’t ready to tell him yet and the conversation moves on to other things.

\----------

They catch a bus along to Charing Cross Road; on the bus Sherlock spends a long time peering eagerly through the thick plastic partition at the driver as he pays his fare, long enough that the driver starts to glare at him and John has to catch Sherlock’s sleeve and tug him away before Sherlock gets thrown off the bus. London bus drivers are a hardy breed, used to dealing with a large range of eccentrics, but John doesn’t want to find out where this particular one’s limits lie.

Once there, Sherlock drags John into a few old bookshops and makes ecstatic noises over some dusty old volumes, while John pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to drag his mind out of the gutter at the little moans of delight coming from his right-hand side.

Chinatown seems the most logical choice for dinner – and if John is being honest, he loves the noise and life and colour of it – and they stroll along the main street. Sherlock’s head turns like a weathervane in a gale as he tries to take in everything; he replies only distractedly to John’s conversational sallies and after a while John is content just to watch him. Sherlock reminds him of some sort of odd bird, his attention demanding new input in the same way that chicks in the nest sit with their little mouths gaping for food; even when Sherlock ignores the menus outside various restaurants in favour of examining the doors and peering in through the windows, John only covers the lower half of his face with his hand to hide a grin.

‘What?’ Sherlock demands, straightening up and catching sight of John’s face. ‘What is it?’

John shakes his head. ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. What d’you think of this one, then? Looks good?’

Sherlock nods, but his face pinches uncertainly, ‘You’re laughing at me.’

‘Maybe a bit,’ John allows, dropping his hand and letting Sherlock see his smile. ‘But mostly I’m wondering how on earth someone like me managed to pull someone like you.’

Sherlock blinks, seemingly disarmed by this, and John takes the opportunity to sweep open the door and gently herd him inside.

After dinner, their stomachs full of food and John’s mind full of images of Sherlock’s fingers deftly manipulating a pair of chopsticks, they dawdle along to Trafalgar Square. It’s getting to the time in the evening where the prospect of Sherlock staying a second night hangs delicately in the air between them; he’s not said anything about going back to John’s place to retrieve his shirt but John has caught him glancing at his watch once or twice, chewing his lip. It feels as though the slightest comment one way or the other could tip him either into John’s bed for a second night, or on a tube to King’s Cross, never to be seen again, and John havers uncertainly over what to say.

Because _God_ , John wants him to stay. Today has been one of the most wonderful days he’s had in a long time, and he doesn’t want to say goodbye to Sherlock yet. But it’s a bit crude and inelegant to just blurt out _Stay, we can go back to mine and I can find out if those noises you made in the bookshop are anything like how you sound when you’re getting fucked,_ and John casts about for a way to delicately extend the invitation.

It just so happens that they’re walking past St-Martin-in-the-Fields, and inspiration strikes.

‘Do you–’ John’s voice cracks a little at first, and he clears his throat and tries again. ‘D’you like classical music?’

Sherlock’s eyebrows lift. ‘Yes,’ he says guardedly. ‘Why?’

John nods his head towards the open doors of St-Martin-in-the-Fields, where the light spills out onto the porch. ‘They sometimes put on classical concerts here. Er, I think they do most evenings, in fact. We could see if there’s one on tonight, if you like?’

Sherlock’s face lights up, and immediately John is pleased he suggested it.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock says again, his body already tilting towards the church steps.

‘Only...’ John begins, and Sherlock stills. ‘It... um. They sometimes finish a bit late, so they... well, you might miss your train.’ That’s not entirely true, as the trains to Cambridge run quite late, but dear God John is going to take all the help he can get here. ‘So you’d have to... I mean, if you wanted then you’d be welcome to... stay. Again.’

Sherlock turns to look at John, his unearthly eyes flicking over John’s face, weighing and assessing, until at last he looks down, his lashes veiling his gaze. John has honestly no clue as to what he’s thinking until Sherlock murmurs ‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble.’

‘None,’ John says immediately, his stomach giving a great leap of relief and excitement. ‘None at all. I’d be happy to. Pleasure.’

He needs rather desperately to shut himself up – Christ, James Bond never has this problem – and so John bites his lip, turns, and makes for the entrance to the ticket desk.

The performer that evening is a young woman who goes by the stage name of Sarasate. John has never heard of her but, once they’ve taken their seats and the concert has started, the look of sheer, unguarded happiness on Sherlock’s face is captivating enough that the music seems mere background noise.

\----------

The following morning they wake early, Sherlock pressed tightly against John. They’re both faintly sore from the previous evening’s exertions; the concert had felt like the start of foreplay, the way Sherlock’s cheeks had flushed and his eyes sparkled, and when they got home Sherlock had gone at John like a starving man at a feast. His enthusiasm had inspired John’s response, and so the best they can manage this morning are slow, mutual handjobs, Sherlock’s erection hard and slick in John’s hand, and his breath trembling in the crook of John’s shoulder.

Sleep steals up on them both, and when he wakes for the second time John is _ravenous_. But Sherlock is still asleep, and so John lies for a long moment and just looks at him. He’s sprawled out on his back, the duvet rucked down around his waist and his chest rising and falling lightly with each breath. Even with sleep crusted in the corner of one eye, he’s still unfairly gorgeous and John watches his closed lids flickering, dark lashes against flushed cheeks, entranced, until his stomach gives a loud, painful rumble.

It’s not that loud but it’s enough to make Sherlock stir, and he inhales a deep breath and stretches, blinking his eyes open to look at John.

‘Morning,’ John says softly, reaching over to trail his fingers along Sherlock’s bicep. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘Mmf,’ is all Sherlock can manage. He makes to rub his face before realising that he still has dried lube and come smeared on his fingers and wrinkles his nose. John smiles, and Sherlock grumbles at him and rubs his forearm briskly over his face before rolling onto his side to face John, big feet shuffling and sliding until they bump against John’s own. John puts an arm around Sherlock’s waist to stroke his back.

John has only just met this man, but it feels surprisingly natural to lie here like this, smoothing his palm along Sherlock’s warm spine while Sherlock stretches and scuffles and yawns as he wakes up. John has to keep reminding himself that he doesn’t know this man, not really, but God he wants to _learn_ to know him, so much.

And so when he opens his mouth, intending to offer Sherlock breakfast and then possibly a taxi to the nearest Tube station, what slips out instead is, ‘Can I see you again?’

Sherlock stills. John is about to kick himself – at least offer the man a _coffee_ first, Watson, for God’s sake – but Sherlock speaks.

‘You don’t have long left here,’ he says, his face level with John’s collarbones. ‘You were being disingenuous yesterday when you said that you were considering signing up; in fact it’s already done.’

Even newly awake, Sherlock’s brain is more than a match for his extraordinary looks, as if John had required further proof, and John doesn’t ask what items in his bedroom have allowed Sherlock to draw that inference. Instead he keeps stroking Sherlock’s skin and admits, ‘You’re right. But I’m not gone yet, and I... I’d really like it. You’re amazing, you know.’

Sherlock is silent for so long that John is afraid the answer is going to be no, and is already kicking himself for not leaving this question until they said goodbye at the station, when a rejection could be gracefully followed by an immediate departure.

But then Sherlock inhales deeply, his ribs expanding startlingly against John’s forearm, and rumbles into John’s chest: ‘Yes. I’d like that too.’


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock is as good as his word. John hadn’t really thought that he would lie about it, but more because Sherlock seems far too blunt and impatient for such polite social lies than because John is confident of the strength of Sherlock’s attraction.

All the same, John can’t stop thinking about him and it’s a relief when Sherlock calls the following Wednesday – sounding stilted and curt but nonetheless with a proposed arrival time for that Friday.

Upon arrival it’s ever so slightly awkward at first. Sherlock is oddly quiet, almost reticent, and John finds himself wondering whether, actually, Sherlock had agreed simply to be polite. But then he catches Sherlock glancing sideways at him and realises that Sherlock – for all his poise and verbal acuity and unearthly beauty – is still just a young man who’s trying to feel his way forward from a one-night stand into something like a relationship, and so John makes a joke about something silly and insignificant, Sherlock laughs, and before long things are more relaxed.

John takes him to the local independent cinema, reasoning that Sherlock seems the sort who might prefer independent films to the latest Hollywood action offering. This turns out not to be one of John’s best ideas ever – they end up being the only occupants of a screen showing an interminable French film about the Second World War – but after twenty minutes it becomes apparent that Sherlock couldn’t give a toss about the film and is far more interested in kissing John, so it all works out alright. And things get significantly better than ‘alright’ when John, after a good half-hour of kissing Sherlock’s soft, hot mouth, drops his hand into Sherlock’s lap to find him almost ludicrously hard in his jeans. John kisses Sherlock’s little noises into silence as he gently opens Sherlock’s jeans and dips his hand inside and Sherlock bites down on his own forearm when he eventually comes. He reciprocates, sliding fluidly to his knees and nuzzling at John’s lap, and John lets his head fall back as Sherlock’s clever fingers open his jeans.

Sherlock spends a couple more weekends down in London; they gradually get longer and longer until John suggests that Sherlock just brings his work with him and stay. Sherlock loses no time in taking him up on the offer, and John grows accustomed to the sight of Sherlock’s papers spread out over his desk, and Sherlock sprawled out on his bed with a large textbook.

They go for endless walks around London, with which Sherlock is completed enchanted. He’s so very easy to spend time with when he’s happy like this, and often John is content just to stand back and watch him. It’s after one such day that they end up lying in bed that evening, Sherlock sprawled out on his back with John’s head pillowed on his stomach.

‘I should come up to Cambridge some time,’ John says. Sherlock’s fingers are in his hair, making him sleepy, but at his suggestion they still.

‘It’s not that interesting,’ Sherlock says, flicking his other hand dismissively.

‘But still.’ John rolls his head until he can see Sherlock’s face, and smiles up at him. ‘It’s _your_ place. It’s where you study. I’m curious about it.’

Sherlock’s hair is ruffled out of order against the pillow, and he chews one side of his mouth before saying, ‘Alright then. If you want.’

The reason for Sherlock’s reticence becomes apparent about ten minutes after John arrives in Sherlock’s college residences, when he notices the stares and whispers that follow Sherlock everywhere he goes. The whisperers don’t even bother being discreet; Sherlock can hardly fail to miss them and he doesn’t, if the set of his shoulders is anything to go by.

‘What the hell’s their problem?’ John demands, once Sherlock has closed the door to his rooms.

Sherlock turns to face him, his expression guarded. ‘Do you remember how I deduced you when I first met you?’

‘Yes.’ John smiles a little at the memory. ‘That was amazing, I’d never seen anything like it.’

‘Yes. Well.’ Sherlock looks away. ‘That’s... not what people usually say.’

‘I _see_.’ And John does. University friendship groups – comprised of the sort of hopelessly trendy people John sees staring at them – are often nests of sexual tension, with people shagging each other and whole relationships made and broken in a matter of weeks. No-one wants a member of the group who’s going to blurt out who’s been sleeping with who.

_And yet you still do it,_ John thinks, but doesn’t say. Sherlock’s posture is slightly defensive, maybe even dejected, and so John grips him firmly by the elbows and presses a solid kiss on the side of Sherlock’s throat.

‘Ignore them,’ he says, squeezing Sherlock’s arms for emphasis. ‘You’re amazing, d’you hear that?’

It’s the right thing to say: Sherlock almost melts with relief against him and winds his arms around John’s waist. He doesn’t murmur any thanks, but the heavy press of his body against John’s is more eloquent than sonnets.

‘I thought that people would be different here,’ Sherlock confides quietly. ‘I thought that I’d meet people who were _interesting_ , that I might even make some friends. But it’s just like school all over again.’

‘Ah well, there’s your problem,’ John says, and tweaks a lock of Sherlock’s hair. ‘You should have come to London, and hooked up with me instead. I’d have spoilt you rotten.’

‘Seducing the freshers, John?’ Sherlock arches an eyebrow, looking more like his usual self, and the weight of his body feels subtly different in John’s arms. ‘ _Really_? How very Mrs Robinson of you.’

‘Oi,’ John protests, poking Sherlock in the ribs. ‘I’m not _that_ much older than you.’

‘Mmm.’ Sherlock is investigating the neck of John’s T-shirt, nosing at the soft cotton. ‘Also I think I’d like a demonstration of this ‘spoiling me’ you’re talking about. I’m not at all clear on what you mean.’

And John grins, already reaching for Sherlock’s shirt buttons. ‘Demonstration coming right up.’

Later – _much_ later, once they make it out of Sherlock’s bedroom – John finds that Sherlock does actually have a friend in Cambridge. Victor is tall and built like a sportsman: not fat but somehow solid, much more so than Sherlock who looks even skinnier next to him (although John has seen him naked enough times to know that his apparent slenderness hides a wiry strength).

‘Hullo,’ Victor says, shaking John’s hand enthusiastically as Sherlock mutters introductions, sounding almost shy. ‘Good to meet you. So you’re behind all Sherlock’s trips down to London eh?’

‘Yes,’ John says, smiling at Victor’s candid friendliness. ‘Yeah, that would be me.’

John likes Victor almost immediately. He owns a small terrier-breed dog – that Sherlock regards with unexplained loathing – and has an easily familiarity with Sherlock that John likes.

It’s a comfort to know that Sherlock has someone here; that when John goes away to the Army he won’t be abandoning Sherlock to the stares and whispers that have followed him so far, but there will be someone to drag Sherlock out of his lab, make sure he eats, and generally look after him, since John won’t be around to do it personally.

Not that John is dwelling on this, of course.

\----------

The following day, Sherlock takes him punting.

‘How...’ John begins slowly, looking at the flat-bottomed boat bumping gently against the jetty, with only a single short oar lying in the bottom of it, ‘how are we supposed to...’

‘With a pole.’ Sherlock points to another punt going past, a student in cut-off denim shorts standing on the flat part at the stern, like a ragged gondolier. ‘Use the pole to push it along, and to steer.’

John watches the other punt go past, the student bracing the pole deftly against his hip to navigate the punt round a bend. ‘Right.’

Another punt drifts past, full of students having a good old look at the pair of them. Specifically at Sherlock, and John thinks he recognises a couple of faces from the group who had been gawping at Sherlock yesterday. He deliberately turns his back on them, and scrutinises the punt again.

John had thought he hid his dubiousness fairly well, but Sherlock flushes and looks away.

‘We don’t have to,’ he says stiffly, and the faint flush along his cheeks could be due to the heat of the day, or something else entirely. ‘I thought it might be something you’d like to try, but of course it’ll be just as tedious as it looks.’

John has never seen Sherlock so awkward and he never wants to again, and so he tugs Sherlock back around to kiss him soundly.

‘I would love to,’ he tells Sherlock fiercely, one hand still clasping Sherlock’s nape to bring him down far enough for John to kiss. ‘Absolutely, yes. What are you going to be doing? Lying there in the boat looking all gorgeous and distracting me?’

‘I...’ Sherlock licks his lips, and looks suitably rumpled. ‘Well. I brought...’ he shrugs the shoulder that has a satchel slung over it, ‘wine. The river keeps it cool quite well, if you dangle it over the side.’

So that was the reason for Sherlock’s sudden and cryptic need to visit Waitrose on the walk down here. Punting with a bottle of wine trailing in the river to cool it is all terribly _Brideshead Revisited_ but at this moment John would rather drink a glass of river water than tease Sherlock about it. He gives Sherlock a last kiss before letting him go.

‘Go on, then, into the rowboat with you.’

Sherlock blinks, a slow smile curving his lips and his cheeks now pink for another reason altogether, but pulls himself together enough to reply pertly, ‘It’s a _punt_ ,’ before hopping in.

John rolls his shoulders a couple of times to loosen the muscles, and sets his jaw determinedly. He and the lads just took on Greenwich last month in the culminating match of the rugby season and handed them their arses on a plate, he can certainly handle poling his boyfriend about in a bloody boat for a couple of hours. After all, how hard can it be?

The cushions in the boat are worn and slightly sun-bleached; Sherlock fusses with them until he has a little pile of them in the prow that he can half-sit, half-lie against, looking for all the world like a young aristocrat.

‘Look at you.’ John grins at him. He steps out of his flip-flops and drops them into the boat before stepping barefooted onto the wooden platform at the back. The varnished wood is warm and slightly sticky under his feet, and John shifts his weight experimentally and spreads his toes to get a better grip.

‘You look like you just stepped out of the pages of a novel,’ John tells Sherlock, who is a study in contrasts with his dark hair and white shirt, and his red mouth. ‘You know. Evelyn Waugh, or E. M. Forster. One of that lot; all high-class homoeroticism.’

A smile curls Sherlock’s mouth, but he only turns his head away and stretches languorously. ‘I’m fairly sure that “that lot”, as you so charmingly call them, had faster service from the help than this.’

John laughs, smothering it at the last minute to turn it into a pretend huff. ‘Prat.’

In retaliation he takes his T-shirt off, wads it up, and chucks it into Sherlock’s face. John isn’t overly vain but he knows that all the rugby has left him fitter than he’s ever been in his life before, and when Sherlock has spluttered and sat up and stuffed John’s T-shirt under him to join his nest of cushions he looks at John and his lips part in a familiar way.

John grins.

‘Now then,’ he says, pretending not to notice Sherlock’s gaze tracking hungrily across his chest and shoulders, and down his flat stomach. ‘How do I make this go?’

Sherlock sinks back down among his cushions.

‘Just stick one end in and shove,’ he says, sending John a wicked look from under his eyelashes. ‘Come on, John, surely you should know how to handle long, hard objects.’

John throws his head back and guffaws delightedly, as Sherlock grins at him. It hasn’t escaped his notice that they’re attracting attention from some of the occupants of the other punts and suddenly John has a moment of almost visceral possessiveness over Sherlock. He can’t quite believe that he’s who Sherlock wants; he doesn’t know what he did right in a previous life to ensure that he’s allowed to kiss Sherlock, and touch him, and strip him bare, but by God he’s going to make the most of it and he crouches down precariously on the standing board.

‘Do I get a drink before we set off?’ he asks. ‘Going to be thirsty work, this, I can tell.’

Sherlock scrambles to open the wine and kneels up to pass it to John, and the same perverse imp that made him strip off his T-shirt now prompts him to forego the plastic cup that Sherlock holds out; there’s something about all the slightly formal rich kids floating past that inspires him to sheer devilry. The wine is a delicate pale gold, and when John swigs it straight from the bottle it’s cold and sharp in his mouth. John takes another drink before handing the bottle back to Sherlock and licking his lips.

‘Beautiful,’ he says, and adds, ‘and the wine’s not bad either.’

It’s a terrible chat-up line and John grins unrepentantly in response to Sherlock’s withering look, but as Sherlock scrambles back to the end of the punt John catches him smiling.

John digs the end of the pole into the river bed, and gently pushes them away from the jetty and out into the current. It’s a beautiful day and the Cam is fairly crowded, and initially John is too absorbed in trying to work out how to pole them along while not steering the thing into any of the other punts to pay much attention to anything else. But after a while he gets the hang of it: it’s not so much shoving with the arms as bracing the end of the pole and twisting from the hips and waist, letting his core muscles do the work, and once John works it out he grins triumphantly at Sherlock.

Sherlock grins back from where he’s stretched out on his cushions, looking so purely and unguardedly _happy_ that John’s smile softens into something rather more besotted. Sherlock has loosened an extra button on his shirt in deference to the heat of the day, and if John looks hard he fancies he can see the beginnings of Sherlock’s sparse scattering of chest hair, unless it’s just the shadow of open vee of his shirt. It makes John daydream wistfully about steering the punt somewhere rather more secluded – perhaps behind a convenient trailing screen of weeping willow – and getting down into the punt to ascertain exactly whether it is, in fact, hair, or just a trick of light and shadow.

A bump recalls him to himself, and John blinks and realises that they’ve drifted over towards the bank.

‘Eyes on the road,’ Sherlock says, smirking at him, and John pretends to grumble at him even as his heart swells to see Sherlock all flushed and sun-soaked.

‘Easy for you to say,’ John retorts, ‘you just have to lie there looking sexy as fuck.’

He lifts the pole to nudge them away from the bank and back out into the current. Or rather, he tries to: the end of it has snagged on something under the water and John pulls at it, at first gently and then with increasing force as this produces no results.

It’s well and truly stuck, and the punt dips and bobs as John tries different grips. And then, quite expectedly, just as he’s bracing his feet and exerting a steady, constant pull, the wretched thing suddenly comes free. John takes a step back at the sudden release of counterweight, which is an enormous mistake because he’s not on solid ground, he’s on a bloody _punt_ , which is designed for people to stand securely in one place and not dance about all over it, and with a whoop of surprise John tips backwards and falls into the river.

His sun-warmed skin makes the initial shock feel much colder than it really is, and by the time John splutters his way to the surface he’s gasping more in surprise than in any real discomfort. The river is shallow enough at this point that when John gets his feet under him he finds that the water only comes to his chest, and he shakes his wet hair out of his eyes and spits some water out of his mouth before looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock – quick-thinking, _brilliant_ Sherlock – is in the middle of carefully throwing a loop of mooring rope around a broken tree root jutting out over the bank, saving the punt from drifting too far away from John, and when it’s secured he turns to John. His face is a picture, he’s completely speechless, and if John were in a different situation – ideally one involving less waterweed in his hair – he would relish the sight of Sherlock Holmes, for once, at a complete and utter loss for words. As it is, however, the river mud oozes between his toes as John laughs and makes a grab for the pole when it floats by, shoving it towards the punt and Sherlock who’s waiting to catch it and haul it aboard. Only when it’s safely stowed does Sherlock’s mouth start to twitch, his eyes sparkling, and John flicks the droplets off his wet fingers at Sherlock and says ‘Nothing like a relaxing day on the river, is there,’ and Sherlock bursts out laughing.

It suits him – John privately thinks that Sherlock doesn’t laugh nearly enough – and John grins at him as he grabs the side of the punt and hauls himself back in. His weight makes the boat rock wildly and Sherlock flails to hang onto the side as John hoists himself up and in, twisting and landing on the floor of the boat with an inelegant grunt.

‘Let’s go punting, John,’ he says, mimicking Sherlock’s deep, cultured vowels as Sherlock leans back against his cushions, positively collapsing with mirth as other punts drift past, the occupants looking at them. ‘It’ll be marvellous on the river, John. What could possibly go wrong, John.’

‘I don’t sound like that,’ Sherlock protests, rallying but still laughing weakly, ‘I _don’t_ , you’re exaggerating – oh.’

John has crawled up the punt to brace his hands on the punt either side of Sherlock and now he leans menacing over Sherlock. Clean, _dry_ Sherlock, in his clean, dry clothes, and John allows his arms to bend slightly, half of his weight on the balls of his feet jammed against the floor of the punt and half on his hands. It’s pure showing off, this push-up on the sides of the punt, and John can already feel the strain in his arms and shoulders and knows he won’t be able to hold it for long, but while he can then Sherlock’s expression is half-laughter and half-desire, and entirely gorgeous.

‘I can’t believe you would laugh at me,’ John says, shaking his head slightly in mock-disapproval so that a couple of drops fall on Sherlock’s face, and lowering himself a couple of inches closer to Sherlock as Sherlock wipes them away.

It’s all empty posturing really: Sherlock looks so elegant just as he is that John can’t bring himself to dirty his crisply pressed shirt and so he pushes himself up and away, careful not to press against Sherlock, and says dryly, ‘See if I listen to any of your good ideas ever again- mmf.’

Sherlock kisses him, having surged up and forwards in an uncalculated move that sets the punt rocking, and John closes his eyes and luxuriates in the press of Sherlock’s soft mouth to his, Sherlock’s hand splayed on the chilled skin of his chest, and the faint, delicious scent of his skin.

He doesn’t get nearly long enough to appreciate it before Sherlock pulls away, making a face.

‘You taste like river water,’ he complains, and John huffs at him as he retreats.

‘Astonishingly, yes, I do.’ He reaches for the wine. ‘Let me have a drink of that, it’ll take the taste out of my mouth.’

Sherlock passes him the bottle and gets to his knees also, and John has only taken a few sips before Sherlock is there in his personal space, demanding another kiss.

‘You’re wonderful,’ John murmurs against his mouth, twining a warm, wayward curl around his fingertip and suddenly, desperately fond of Sherlock.

‘Mmm,’ Sherlock purrs, smiling as he kisses John. ‘You’re rather wonderful yourself.’

Sherlock sinks back into the punt afterwards, looking supremely self-satisfied, and John gets back up on the flat bit. It may have only been a few months but he’s increasingly sure that he’d do anything to keep Sherlock looking so content. But that’s an admission that John’s not ready to make just yet and so he hugs the knowledge to himself, merely smiling as he watches the muscles in Sherlock’s forearms flex as he hauls in the mooring rope, and tells himself to have patience.


	4. Chapter 4

After John’s visit to Cambridge, the next time he sees Sherlock is also in a mode of transport, albeit one quite different to the old-fashioned elegance of the punts.

Sherlock had called John earlier in the week, ostensibly to ask his opinion on a problem but it had quickly turned into a chat about nothing in particular, and John had sat on the floor by the phone until his arse was numb, phone cradled between cheek and shoulder, stupidly in love with the rumble of Sherlock’s voice in his ear.

He had agreed immediately when Sherlock had said ‘See you on Saturday,’ with just the slightest upward tilt at the end of the phrase, and he’s just glancing at the clock and thinking about putting his shoes on to go to King’s Cross when there’s a flurry of a car horn outside. At first John ignores it, other than thinking that someone sounds impatient. But it doesn’t abate, and at last he walks through to the living room and looks out the window to see what all the fuss is about.

A convertible is parked outside: a sleek, midnight-blue thing with the top wound back, and the sun glancing off every glossy line of her, and a familiar dark head sitting behind the wheel.

‘What the _hell_...’ John breathes, and he opens the window to lean out.

Sherlock is looking at the front of John’s block of flats with an impatient scowl, but when John leans his head out Sherlock fixes on him with a delighted smile.

‘John?’ he calls up to him, shoving his sunglasses up to perch among his curls. ‘Fancy a drive?’

‘What the fuck...’ John can hardly speak for laughing. ‘Where the hell did you get that?’

Sherlock’s only reply is to look terribly pleased with himself and rev the engine slightly, and John pulls his head back inside and makes haste to grab his keys, wallet, and sunglasses. Almost as an afterthought he picks up a jumper; the summer’s heatwave is still in full force, but coasting along with the top down has the potential to get cold very quickly.

Outside, Sherlock beams at him as John walks up to the car. Sherlock looks like a film star, with his unearthly good looks and his crisp shirt with artlessly rolled-up sleeves and loosened buttons, and John comes to stand by the driver’s side and grins down at him.

‘Hello, you,’ he says.

‘Hello.’ Sherlock tips his head back and smiles up at John, a gloriously carefree, unguarded smile. He waves an elegant hand at the shabby tower block. ‘Let me take you away from all this.’

John bursts out laughing, and Sherlock beams.

‘Sherlock,’ John says, bracing his hands on the driver’s door and leaning down until they’re almost nose-to-nose, close enough to kiss. ‘I will go anywhere you like with you, always. And not just because you’re driving a...’ he pauses, glances at the car properly, and realises with a jolt what it is, ‘an _Aston Martin_ , oh my God.’

John leans back up, gripped by automotive lust; the kiss is forgotten but Sherlock’s Cheshire Cat grin doesn’t look too crushed at this. John smoothes a hand over the streamlined contours of her, the metal so warm under his hand he could almost swear that she’s alive and humming under his touch. He reaches inside to run his fingers along the steering wheel. God, even _that_ is silky and gorgeous, and John breathes, ‘This is _James Bond’s_ car, it’s amazing.’

‘I know,’ Sherlock replies, sounding so proud of himself that John would laugh if he wasn’t too busy staring at the car with the sort of naked adoration he usually reserves for Sherlock.

It’s only at that point, rather belatedly, that it occurs to John to repeat his question. ‘Where on earth did you get this?’

‘Courtesy of my brother’ Sherlock purrs, and John blinks a little and tries to assimilate this with what he knows of Sherlock’s brother.

He’s older, true, but John hadn’t thought he was _that_ much older, and John says doubtfully, ‘Isn’t he a bit young to be buying a midlife crisis car?’

Sherlock’s easy smile vanishes, and he flattens a palm protectively against the steering wheel as he glares at John.

‘It’s not a midlife crisis car,’ he says, sounding offended. ‘And it’s not his: I borrowed his credit card and rented it.’

‘You rented it _on his credit card_?’ John says, horrified, but Sherlock’s face says that this isn’t the real issue here. John wouldn’t have thought Sherlock’s ego was so easily bruised over something as trivial as his taste in cars, but apparently he’s wrong and he backpedals quickly.

‘If _you_ chose it then that’s a completely different thing,’ he corrects himself, but Sherlock is unappeased.

‘I thought you would like it,’ Sherlock says stiffly, looking away, and John leans into the car, turns the engine off, and plants his hands against the driver’s seat on either side of Sherlock’s shoulders.

‘I _do_ like it,’ John says, with heartfelt sincerity, and leans in to kiss Sherlock briefly on his downturned mouth. ‘I _love_ it.’ Another kiss. ‘I love the car, and I love y–’ John catches himself just in time, and finishes weakly ‘–your plans for it, whatever they are.’

He draws back a little, just far enough to see if Sherlock has noticed his slip and what his response is, and the answers appear to be possibly and to blink at John, suspicious but not actually willing to call him on it.

‘We _are_ doing something with the car, yes?’ John says, almost begs. ‘Please don’t tell me you drove it all the way down here just to park it outside the block of flats and go for a walk.’

‘I thought we could go for a picnic,’ Sherlock murmurs, waving a hand behind himself and thawing under the worshipful, repeated press of John’s mouth, and John lifts his head enough to glance into the space behind the seats.

Tucked in there are several promisingly full carrier bags, with a golden-crusted baguette poking out of one, and John grins in delight.

‘Fantastic,’ he says, kissing Sherlock soundly again. ‘Brilliant, have I told you you’re brilliant recently?’

At last Sherlock smiles, for real, and his hand lifts to cup John’s nape.

‘Not for hours,’ he murmurs, and John laughs. Sherlock’s voice is all mock-offended, entirely unlike the real thing of just a few moments ago, and John kisses Sherlock’s mouth as he fights to hang on to his scowl.

‘Thank you,’ John says belatedly, realising that he hasn’t voiced it. ‘Thank you for this, it’s wonderful.’

‘Not a midlife crisis, then,’ Sherlock says, the slightest acerbic edge to his tone, and John kisses him again.

‘Sherlock,’ he says, deeply sincere, ‘if a middle-aged Government administrator buys this car, it’s a midlife crisis. When _you’re_ driving it... God, you look like a centrefold.’

It’s true, and John thinks that that’s the reason Sherlock pulls him into a kiss and all but melts under him, putty in John’s hands, until Sherlock exhales a happy little sigh and murmurs ‘Thank you for calling him a middle-aged Government administrator,’ sounding so pleased that John has to laugh again.

‘Are you going to let me drive?’ he asks, leaning back up to smooth his hands greedily over the shiny, sun-warm paintwork of the driver’s door.

‘Mmm.’ Sherlock runs a possessive hand along the steering wheel and God, John should have seen this coming, of _course_ Sherlock would be the sort of driver who would have to be crowbarred out from behind the wheel and into the passenger seat.

But Sherlock relents when he sees John’s face.

‘When we’re out of London?’ he offers, and John says ‘Deal’ as he walks round to the passenger seat.

The Aston handles like a dream, its engine purring like a tiger cub, and John flicks on his sunglasses, lets his head rest back against the seat, and grins wildly at the perfect blue sky as Sherlock deftly navigates the London streets. It’s only when the car jerks to a halt and Sherlock curses that John lifts his head to see that they’re in a blind alley.

‘It really didn’t look as though this was a dead end,’ Sherlock complains, twisting to look over his shoulder and trying to reverse the car out into a main road.

John – half-stupid with the sun’s warmth – takes a few moments to realise what this means.

‘Hang on, do you even know how to get out of London?’

‘Of course,’ Sherlock says immediately. He waves a hand in the general direction of wherever it is that he wants them to end up. ‘You know. Broadly speaking. We just need to keep on going west.’

‘Oh my God.’ John laughs at him and immediately sits up to search for a road atlas and help, because it’s ten in the morning and Sherlock has been contently driving into sun more or less since they set off. For someone who grew up in the countryside – as Sherlock has guardedly admitted – he seems to have a terrible sense of direction.

With John navigating they turn themselves around, and soon they’re speeding past Victoria embankment with the Thames sparkling on their left and the grand old townhouses on their right, out through Chiswick, and on into the beckoning greenery beyond. Sherlock is happy to go where John navigates them, and he looks so happy and carefree and _gorgeous_ at the wheel of the car, with the wind ruffling his hair out of its careful order, that John could almost be content just to sit and watch him.

‘Almost’ isn’t’ the same as ‘entirely’, however, and in the far outskirts of London, when Sherlock slows and glances over at him, John is quick to poke his arm. ‘Come on, my turn.’

Sherlock sighs, but he immediately slows and indicates before turning into a quiet side-street, and parking by the side of the road. John has unsnapped his seatbelt and is already reaching for the door handle, but he halts when Sherlock slides a long leg over into his side of the leg space and slides across the seat.

‘Come on, then,’ Sherlock says, half in John’s lap already, and John makes haste to stop staring at him and mirror Sherlock’s actions.

It’s the most ridiculous way of swapping positions that John has ever seen: Sherlock’s long legs tangling with his and their knees knocking the gear stick out of alignment, Sherlock trying to eel his way across on top of John and John not quite knowing where to put his hands before realising that he’d be mad to pass up the chance for a good grope of Sherlock, and from that point on it degenerates slightly. John pretends to get stuck partway, with Sherlock’s arse in his lap and his hands on Sherlock’s thighs straddling his, and by the time they extricate themselves and John ends up behind the wheel Sherlock is pink-cheeked and ruffled in the passenger seat.

‘That didn’t go as smoothly as it should have done,’ he complains at John, but his eyes are sparkling and John grins.

‘Oh dear,’ he says, all innocence, as he puts his seatbelt on and adjust the mirror positions. ‘Still, the experimental process, eh? Chalk it up to experience.’

And has to laugh when Sherlock glares at him.

‘Where to, then?’ John asks, turning the car around and getting ready to pull back out into the main road.

But Sherlock only sits back in his seat and puts his sunglasses on.

‘Anywhere,’ he says with a languid wave of his hand.

John snorts. ‘Right then. Once around the block, second star to the right, and straight on ‘til morning, yes? Off we go.’

\----------

John drives until he starts to get hungry, and then he pushes himself to hold out and keep driving purely because the Aston handles so beautifully and because Sherlock is over in the passenger seat listening to Classic FM and waving his long fingers in time with the music, and John never wants this journey to end, ever.

But at last he gets hungry enough that he really can’t ignore it any longer, and so he turns off the main road onto a side road, and then drives some more and turns again, until at last they’re going down a track that looks as though it will peter out into nothing – narrow enough that John hopes fervently that they don’t meet anyone coming the other way – and John finds a convenient lay-by and pulls over.

There are high hedgerows on either side of the road, but John spies a gate in one of them and he says ‘Wait here,’ as he hops out and goes to investigate.

On the other side of the gate is a field. Presumably left to lie fallow – or whatever it is fields do, John really wouldn’t know and doubts Sherlock does either – the ground has seeded itself with wildflowers and John smiles. There’s scarcely a breath of wind and the air is heavy and still, but in one corner of the field there’s a massive tree holding a patch of cool shade beneath its branches, and John turns decisively.

‘Come on, you,’ he says back at the car, tweaking a lock of Sherlock’s hair affectionately. ‘Lunchtime, let’s go.’

Sherlock must be hot – or perhaps his hunger is overcoming even his boundless curiosity – because he gets out of the car without a single question about where they are or what John has found. They divide the bags between them, and while Sherlock fishes a rug out from under the back seat, John sets out back into the field toward the tree.

The day is hot and sticky enough that even this short walk leaves them both hot and breathless; when they step into the cooler spot below the branches John looks over to see Sherlock’s pale cheeks flushed and a sheen of sweat on his face.

John sets his share of the bags down, snags the rug from where Sherlock has slung it over his shoulder, and spreads it out on the ground before sinking onto it with a sigh.

‘Come on,’ he says, patting the rug next to him, ‘and please tell me there’s something to drink in one of those bags.’

Sherlock all but collapses to his knees next to John and pulls out two large bottles of water; John is so absorbed in gulping thirstily that he almost misses watching the sweat-slick column of Sherlock’s throat work as he pulls greedily at the bottle.

‘Come here,’ John says, putting the bottle aside to catch his breath. He strips his T-shirt off and immediately feels better, with the breeze cooling his too-hot skin. He catches hold of a fold of Sherlock’s shirt, and tugs. ‘Why don’t you take this off? You’ll be much cooler.’

‘I...’ Sherlock looks at John’s bare torso with just the slightest trace of envy. It’s so subtle that even two months ago John wouldn’t have seen it but he’s getting to know Sherlock’s moods and tells.

‘Go on,’ John presses. They really _are_ in the middle of nowhere. There’s not even any distant traffic noise, just the crickets chirping, and John urges, ‘It’s only me here, there’s no-one around to see.’

For such a beautiful man Sherlock is oddly prim about flashing skin in public, but for John he relents.

‘Alright,’ he says, beginning to loosen his shirt, and John gives a happy sigh as the fabric slowly gapes open to show skin, like a personalised striptease.

He’d like to watch for longer, he really would, but his stomach feels as though it’s sticking to his spine and John has to turn away to rummage in the bags for food.

There’s cold ham, and chicken, and three types of cheese, there are tomatoes and French bread and olives, and some fancy red onion marmalade, and for a long time there’s no further talk because they're both too busy wolfing down the food, only pausing to tear off chunks of bread and push things toward each other with a ‘Here, try this,’ or ‘Take some more of that.’

At last John is full, and he wads up his T-shirt and tucks it behind himself so he can lean back against the tree and stretch his legs out with a happy sigh. Sherlock, when he eats, does so with the single-minded intensity of a young man who’s still putting muscle on his lanky frame, but all the same it’s not long before he crawls over toward John and sags down onto the rug, laying his head in John’s lap and sucking the last traces of olive brine off his fingers.

‘That was delicious,’ John says, petting Sherlock’s hair idly and closing his eyes, and Sherlock murmurs his agreement as he rubs his cheek along John’s thigh.

It’s perfectly blissful to sit here like this, his stomach full and Sherlock in his lap all heavy with food and sleep, and John winds his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and caresses him, looking down at his flushed cheeks and the dark fan of his eyelashes.

As John watches Sherlock he has a sudden surge of fierce affection for him. God he adores this bloke, he really does, and the words rise up in his throat until the effort of not saying them almost chokes him.

John smoothes Sherlock’s hair away from his face, and murmurs, ‘I love you.’

Immediately Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he twists his head to stare up at John with a look of utter astonishment, as though it’s the most surprising thing that one human being has ever said to another. John smiles down at him: Sherlock’s surprise makes him look younger, and there may only be a few years between them but John suddenly feels terribly protective of him.

‘You...’ Sherlock says.

‘Yeah,’ John says gently. A bumblebee comes to investigate a poppy by John’s foot, fat and drunk on nectar, and John lightly presses his palms to the sides of Sherlock’s face so he can look his fill at Sherlock’s sweetly amazed expression.

‘It doesn’t matter if you don’t feel the same,’ John says. Lies, really: it most certainly _does_ matter, but Sherlock’s eyes are wide and cornflower-blue and artless, and John would rather Sherlock said nothing at all than lied because he felt he ought to.

John’s never said the words to anyone before and yet, even though it’s only been a few months, this is something he knows, deep in his bones, to be true. As well ask how he’s able to touch his fingertip to his nose with his eyes shut, or how he knows which way is up; there’s a scientific explanation for all of it, of course, involving spatial awareness and inner ear balance systems and hormones, but it doesn’t make the sensations any less real and visceral.

However, John’s knowledge of how this sort of thing ought to go is limited to Hollywood, where there’s generally a swell of music, the happy couple fall into each others’ arms, and the curtain rings down as they all go off to live happily ever after.

In reality, John finds that this feels like the beginning of something rather than the climax, especially when Sherlock’s full, beautiful mouth quirks and then smiles widely as he says: ‘I love you too.’

John had hoped – he had noted Sherlock’s reactions to him, and the time Sherlock spent with him and he had hoped, had wished for this, but still. To have it confirmed is dizzying: it’s a rush of birds in flight on a crisp autumn morning, it’s winning something valuable beyond price, and John grins foolishly.

‘D’you really?’ he asks and Sherlock nods, his face still so openly, unguardedly happy it makes John’s heart ache, because Sherlock looks like a young man who’s fallen utterly, blissfully in love for the first time in his life.

John leans down to kiss him. Sherlock responds readily, but during the kiss there’s a subtle shift in him. It’s nothing concrete John can put his finger on, yet when he leans up he’s not surprised to see that Sherlock now looks... well. _Not_ happy. He’s not sad or angry or even worried, but the soft, sweet chime of his joy has gone from his face.

Rubbing his thumb lightly across Sherlock’s cheek, John murmurs, ‘Hey, What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ Sherlock shakes his head and smiles at John but it’s not his real smile – John has been the cause of that enough times now to know what that looks like, and he strokes his fingertips down Sherlock’s face.

‘Tell me.’

Sherlock shakes his head again. ‘It’s nothing.’

John stirs, coaxing Sherlock’s head off his lap and shuffling down so he can lie on his side facing Sherlock, stuffing his jumper under Sherlock’s head as an afterthought. He looks at Sherlock. Sherlock is lying with his cheek pillowed on his hand, his cheeks still slightly pink from the heat of the day, and he watches John as John curls close to him.

Down here on a level with Sherlock, the grass and wildflowers rise up around the edge of the rug. With nothing else in his line of vision and not a sound from the outside world, it feels like their own little universe, like they could be the only two people left on the planet. John tucks his T-shirt under his head and reaches out to stroke gently along Sherlock’s forearm.

‘I’ve never said that to anyone before,’ John says quietly. ‘This isn’t something I just say to people for the hell of it, you know. I really meant it.’

His fingers reach Sherlock’s wrist and Sherlock’s hand turns and reaches for his, tangling their fingers together briefly before Sherlock shuffles forward. John quickly wraps his arms around Sherlock as he presses close, tucking his head under John’s chin.

Any lingering, private doubts about whether Sherlock really meant it are dispelled by the clasp of Sherlock’s arms, and the dig of his fingers into John’s back.

‘This wasn’t meant to happen,’ Sherlock says into John’s collarbone. ‘We were meant to have sex for a few months and nothing more. You’re going to _leave_.’

John sighs, and finally acknowledges the thing that’s been resting unspoken at the back of his mind.

‘I’ll come back to you,’ he says, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and squeezing him fiercely. ‘I _swear_ to you, Sherlock, I will come back. Do you hear me?’

‘You can’t promise that,’ Sherlock says, his fingers scrabbling at John’s back as though John is already drifting away from him. ‘No-one can–’ 

‘I _will_. This is the British Army, Sherlock: six impossible things every day before breakfast.’ This makes Sherlock huff a laugh against John’s skin and John, encouraged, continues: ‘I’m not going to be on the front line. They’re not such idiots as to take tens of thousands of pounds-worth of skilled medical training and then stick it out on the front line to be shot at.’

It makes him sound like a coward, whimpering about how he wants to stay safe while sending _other_ young men out to face the real danger, and John’s skin prickles with shame. But this isn’t about him, it’s about Sherlock, who is squeezing John tightly as though he’d like to keep him far away from bombs and enemy fire and the constant possibility of sudden death. John sets his jaw. ‘I’ll be perfectly fine.’

‘I love you,’ Sherlock says suddenly, and lifts his head to kiss John hard on the mouth. He glares at John when he pulls back. ‘Do you hear? I love you. Come back to me.’

‘I will.’ Lips still tingling, John grips Sherlock’s nape and presses their foreheads together. ‘I will come back to you or die trying.’

Sherlock shudders hard. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘Hush.’ John gentles his grip to something more soothing, rubbing at Sherlock’s nape to calm him the way he might do a skittish animal. ‘Come here.’

Sherlock goes, slithers down the blanket and presses his face to John’s throat, moulding himself to John and winding his limbs around him as though Sherlock will keep John safe by sheer force of will alone.

If anyone could do it then it would be Sherlock, force of nature that he is, John starts to drowse, held in a cage of long limbs.

It’s not properly sleep, more a doze brought on by the warmth of the afternoon and the intimacy of lying so closely entwined with Sherlock (who’s now much more comfortable to sleep against than he was the first time John did so), and when Sherlock begins to murmur something it takes John a while to realise he’s not speaking English.

‘ _Si tu m’apprivoises, nous aurons besoin l’un de l’autre_ ,’ Sherlock breathes, stroking his long fingers down John’s back, ‘ _Tu seras pour moi unique au monde. Je serai pour toi unique au monde_.’

John has never heard Sherlock speak French before – although he knew Sherlock could, he’s heard mention of summers spent in France with his grandmother. It’s lovely and so, despite the fact that the words clearly aren’t addressed to him, he strokes a sleepy hand over Sherlock’s hair and rouses enough to say ‘What’re you saying? It sounds beautiful.’

‘Nothing.’ Sherlock dips his head to place a kiss very precisely over John’s heart. ‘Just something my grandmother used to read to me. Go back to sleep.’

John vows not to be so easily put off, and to look it up: his French is decent enough that he can more or less pick out the words. Failing that, he’ll try to get the story out of Sherlock: if approached at the right moments and in the right manner, then Sherlock is almost shockingly pliable when it’s John who’s asking.

But somehow, between the rest of their afternoon, the drive back to John’s flat, it rather slips John’s mind and he never does get round to it.

\----------

The weeks that follow are simultaneously some of the best and yet some of the worst of John’s life. On one hand he has Sherlock: in his bed every night, and at his side every day. After that drive out to the countryside Sherlock had gone back up to Cambridge and then, unexpectedly, reappeared a couple of days later with a rucksack full of clothes and a silent question in his eyes. John would no more have dreamed of turning him away than he would cut off his own arm, and from that moment on he has Sherlock essentially living with him.

John loves this young man – he _adores_ him – and now that Sherlock has yielded he makes no secret of the fact that he adores John equally. John had always harboured a secret suspicion that Sherlock, once won, would be won utterly and completely, and his delight knows no bounds when time proves him to be right. It’s a joy to see Sherlock’s face light up when John enters a room, and John is so foolishly in love with Sherlock that he’s almost dizzy with it. He wants to hug Sherlock to him in huge, greedy armfuls, doting on him until he knows every last one of Sherlock’s hopes and fears and memories.

But – where the weeks before his final exams had dragged, along with those spent on rotation under the supervision of Thompson, who seemed to take a sadistic delight in running the new doctors ragged – days spent with Sherlock are also cruel in how quickly they fly over.

John isn’t the only one aware of it, not by a long shot, and sometimes he feels it was cruel to tell Sherlock he loves him. Because now that John knows Sherlock better it’s clear as day to see that Sherlock – beneath his evident pleasure in John’s presence, and his attention – is entirely miserable at the thought of John’s pending departure. John would love to be able to reassure him, but he finds himself entirely at a loss. He’s just as unwilling to leave Sherlock; he’s never before had a moment of doubt that the Army was what he wanted to do, but Sherlock is so vibrant and compelling that John could spend a lifetime by his side and still think it too short a span in which to completely know him.

Perhaps it would have been kinder to say nothing, to just say their goodbyes at the end of the summer and go their separate ways. John would have been heartbroken, but perhaps it would have been kinder to Sherlock to at least try to keep this as a casual summer affair. But when John lies in the dark stillness of an August night, Sherlock’s head heavy on his shoulder and his arm flung proprietarily over John’s stomach, he drinks in the scent of Sherlock’s hair and listens to the poetry of his sleeping breaths, and can’t find it in himself to regret giving Sherlock the knowledge that he’s the love of John’s life.

\----------

All too soon it’s somehow the last night. John has packed: his rucksack sits in the corner of the hotel room next to Sherlock’s. His belongings are packed in storage, and all goodbyes to friends and family are said – John had gone up for a long weekend with his parents and Harry before going, and had been all but counting the hours until he could return to London and Sherlock – and now there’s nothing left to do but lie on the bed and wrap Sherlock up tightly as Sherlock burrows against him.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ John says into Sherlock’s hair, clutching him hard. The points of Sherlock’s sharp shoulders dig into his flesh. ‘I don’t know exactly when, but I’ll write, and the moment I get any leave then I’ll be back, alright?’

Sherlock doesn’t reply. John doesn’t expect him to, he only holds Sherlock tighter and moves a hand to grip Sherlock’s nape in a hold that’s downright greedy.

At last, after an age spent listening to the faint sounds of the traffic outside and Sherlock’s breath fluttering warm against the side of John’s throat, Sherlock speaks.

‘Come back to me,’ he says, muffled against John’s skin. ‘I don’t care how long it takes, or how you manage it. Just come back.’

‘I will,’ John says. ‘I promise you, I will.’

Sherlock gives a smothered noise. ‘No-one can promise that.’

Sherlock’s hair is inky-dark and so soft against John’s hand, and he grips a handful and tugs gently.

‘I can. I _am_.’

Sherlock doesn’t reply to this, and John doesn’t speak again. There’s really nothing more to be said.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes John a year to lose touch with Sherlock.

After all their promises, their assurances to each other, John would have sworn they were safe. He would have moved heaven and earth for Sherlock; he couldn’t ever imagine a time when he wouldn’t want to hear about Sherlock’s life, and when he wouldn’t want to share every detail of his day with Sherlock.

But war is an ugly business. There’s no _dulce et decorum est_ in what John is doing, and within six months the carefree young man who spent that golden summer with Sherlock is already gone. Basic training is tough, and then John’s first posting is tougher still, and John finds himself quite honestly at a loss when he comes to write home to Sherlock.

In his mind, Sherlock is part of life back home. The dreaming spires, and kisses tasting of wine and honey, and warm, lazy afternoons. John’s work these days is messy, gritty, exhausting business, and there’s no part of it he wants to share with Sherlock. It feels as though it would taint him, somehow.

Whether Sherlock understands this or not, John never discovers. On one occasion only does John try to explain it, in a letter to Sherlock; Sherlock doesn’t reply to that, specifically, but he makes reference to other points in that letter so John knows damn well that the thing got through. Sherlock’s letters are full: news of his studies, and how much he misses John, puzzles that the other students have brought to him, and the unbearable tedium of everything without John there.

Slowly – so slowly that John thinks at first he must be imagining it – Sherlock’s letters start to arrive at longer intervals, and they’re thinner when they do arrive. John tries not to mind, tells himself that Sherlock is coming to the end of his second year at university, so of course he’s going to be distracted, but he’s only partly successful.

There are a few university-age blokes in John’s unit – in fact they’re a pretty mixed assortment of characters, given their different backgrounds – but time and trials hammer them into a tight-knit team.

(And that’s yet another thing John can’t explain to Sherlock. Sherlock, with his Bohemian soul, just can’t understand the pleasure of the bone-deep camaraderie among a group of people who – together, under uniquely difficult conditions – are greater than the sum of their parts.)

One thing they all have in common, though, is their unmarried status. And one by one, over the weeks and months, John watches their relationships falter and fail.

First is Matherson, sitting on his bunk reading a letter that consists of pages covered in feminine script that sends him out on a run lasting several hours, and that Saturday he gets raging drunk.

Next is Davies, who won’t talk about it – who never does end up even mentioning it – but who walks around looking like shit for a month.

A couple of months later it’s Jefferies.

Each one sends a shiver down John’s spine, makes him check that day’s post delivery just a little more anxiously for a letter from Sherlock, and read it all the more carefully when it does come.

But Sherlock’s letters bring no comfort with them. It’s becoming transparently clear that something – or some _one_ – is pulling Sherlock’s attention away from John. John doesn’t say so but John can read between the lines as well as the next man (and rather better than most, when it comes to Sherlock) and it’s clear that there’s a particular quality that has disappeared from Sherlock’s letters at some point when John wasn’t looking.

Perhaps this was always a fool’s hope. John is all but married to the Army now; what room does he have left in his life for another? And what sort of life would that be for Sherlock, having to be content with whatever scraps of time John could give him once his duties are done? Meeting up, but always keeping his bags packed for his next call, his next posting... Sherlock deserves someone who can appreciate him, who will be able to be there with him day after day. Not some attempt to keep alive something that, John suspects, should have died a natural death long ago.

And so finally John steels himself and sits down to write the letter he swore he never would. He thanks Sherlock for their time together, and promises that he’ll never forget that summer as long as he lives, but that perhaps it would be for the best if they parted ways. It’s the hardest letter John has ever had to write, and he goes through countless drafts before he finishes, his nose clogged and his eyes prickling all the while.

When he finishes he’s utterly drained, exhausted as though he’s just finished a twenty-mile run; on his next day off he gets comprehensively drunk out of his mind and his team, God bless them and keep them, don’t ask him any questions but keep an eye on him all evening and drag him to bed when he finally passes out.

Sherlock doesn’t reply.

In fact John never receives another letter from him.

\----------

Despite the distance already opening up between them, despite the discomfort of the constant state of limbo John has been living in for the past eleven months, awaiting each of Sherlock’s letters and finding them lacking when they do arrive, putting an end to their relationship hurts far more than John expected.

It hurts, in fact, very much like John has ruptured something, deep in his chest, and it takes an agonisingly long time for the pain to subside.

After three months, John wakes up one morning and can see further than his own heartbreak. Life goes on, after all, and nowhere is the resilience of the human spirit demonstrated more clearly than here; John sees things almost daily that make him feel humbled in comparison.

After six months the memory of Sherlock and their time together is already beginning to recede. John still can’t think of Sherlock without a painful twinge, but he finds that these days he doesn’t have a lot of time for thinking of anything much beyond the next crisis, the next emergency surgery.

After a year John is a different person. The memory of Sherlock is like a dream: a beautiful dream, that happened long ago and that John will keep close to his heart for as long as he lives, but ultimately as real and tangible as a soap bubble. These days John deals in blood and death and the business of war; meadows and summer kisses don’t feature in his world anywhere.

After three years John has forgotten the smell of Sherlock’s skin. He can’t quite recall the exact way Sherlock’s eyes used to crinkle when he smiled, or the exact timbre of his voice; it grieves him that he should no longer know these things about Sherlock and that perhaps – even now – another man is learning them anew as Sherlock smiles at him, and murmurs secrets in his ear. And so mostly John tries not to think about it.

After five years, mobile phones are becoming common; John goes home on leave and sees them everywhere. With a sudden, instinctive certainty he just _knows_ that Sherlock will have one, and he smiles at the thought that Sherlock has probably been waiting all his life for just this sort of handy communication device. He doesn’t much like being back in the UK. It’s all so strange: civilian life is far too different from what he’s used to, and when his time is up he packs his bags for Afghanistan without a shade of regret. This is where his home lies, now.

After seven years John is burnt brown as a nut. The desert has marked him as her own; when John returns from patrol he looks in the mirror and sees the lines in his face, the dust that seems permanently ground into his pores that no amount of washing will remove. This land is a land of gold and brown and tan, a land of heat and dust that scours the landscape clean, harsh and unforgiving yet at the same time beautiful. If John thought about it then he’d realise that nothing could be more different the Sherlock’s monochrome beauty: his black hair and pale skin, his cool, competent hands, his kissable red mouth like that of a fairytale prince. But Sherlock is a bittersweet memory that still – even after all these years – brings as much pain as pleasure. Far easier to let the desert burn all such thoughts away.

After nine years, John barely resists thumping his head on the mess hall table when he looks along the table and realises he’s now one of the older ones on the base. He knows he’s not _old_ , not by a long shot. He’s in the peak of health and he’s never been fitter: he can carry a heavy pack for miles, across difficult terrain in the midday sun. He can carry a wounded man to safety and then – once back behind their lines – scrub up and work on him throughout the night until the dawn reaches pale fingers over the horizon to where John is inserting the final sutures. The knowledge that he’s saving lives, that he’s held a man’s life cupped in the palm of his hand and pulled him back from the very threshold of death... it’s at once more fulfilling and more humbling than John could ever have imagined. The human body is astonishingly resilient, yet at the same time can be so terribly fragile; John repeats this to himself each time he loses a colleague or a friend on the operating table, when his best just hasn’t been good enough. It doesn’t help.

John’s hair starts to grey prematurely. The sun and aridity and the wind have weathered and aged him beyond his years, and the dirt and death and experience of watching too many friends fall in action has left him feeling old. He’s aware that other men his age, back home, are getting married, buying houses, and starting families. The notion seems as remote and bizarre as emigrating to Mars; John’s unit are his family. The battlefield is his home; the desert has got under his very _skin_ , the dust and grit in his boots more familiar than British soil, and the tips of his hair are bleached into blondness. John’s fellow soldiers are closer than any brothers could ever be: he’s killed to save them, and they’ve done the same for him. The vastness of the desert night sky is his peace and sanctuary, the chop of helicopter blades when he’s catching an all-too-brief nap is his lullaby, and the hard weight of an assault rifle at his side a known and comforting thing.

But the desert takes and gives nothing back, and at last – after more narrow escapes over the years than John cares to count – his time runs out.

When John is shot, he doesn’t register it at first. They’ve been ambushed on patrol and the air is full of the stuttering crackle of gunfire; something slams into John and makes him sway backwards, but it’s not until he looks down that he realises it wasn’t a stone thrown up by the firefight. There’s a dark red stain on his collarbone, and under John’s eyes it spreads with alarming speed.

‘Shit,’ he says breathlessly, fear suddenly biting sharp and visceral at his stomach. ‘Shit, fuck, not good–’

He’s reaching for a wad of cloth, _anything_ to press against it to staunch the flow, but there’s far too much. They must have got the subclavian artery and, this far from base and medical help, then John knows in his heart of hearts he’s already a dead man.

His legs turn watery and he sits down hard. The world is starting to swim dizzily – his blood pressure dropping like a stone – as sticky warmth sheets down his chest. John shuts his eyes.

‘Watson!’

That sounds like Murray; John struggles to open his eyes but they don’t seem to work. So much easier to stop struggling, to turn away from the pain and fear and sink into peaceful unconsciousness. Muzzily, as the darkness rises up to enfold him, John’s last thoughts are of eyes as blue as a desert sky, and a voice as resonant and deep as the bones of the mountains.


	6. Chapter 6

Except that, by some miracle, it’s not the end. Whatever deity looks after soldiers has decided to grant John more years, because although he learns later that his life sank to the barest flutter, it never winked out entirely.

He also learns that he owes his continued existence to Murray. He hears how Murray stayed at his side the whole way back to base, holding John’s blood in with his hands, copious swearing, and sheer force of will. It’s a debt John can never repay, but right now it’s hard to focus on that because of two little words on John’s chart that mean his world as he knows it is over: nerve damage.

The bullet that nearly made him bleed to death has also made a right mess of the nerves in his left shoulder, which means that his dominant hand quivers and shakes. It’s a death knell to his career, since no-one can perform surgery with a tremor, and the sheer enormity of it leave John unable to focus on anything else, numb to everything but the sickening realisation that the path he loves – his vocation – is irrevocably shut to him for the rest of his life.

In a way, it’s almost a relief when the typhoid fever finds him.

\----------

For the second time in as many months John almost dies; his shoulder isn’t fully healed and the nausea and vomiting jostle it until it’s a constant stab of agony. He develops an infection in it – entirely unsurprising, given that his immune system is fighting on multiple fronts – and for a long time he doesn’t know who he is or where he is.

And then, weeks later, once the illness has run his course, he doesn’t want to.

John is a shadow of his former self. All he wants to do is sleep, and yet rest doesn’t leave him refreshed. Even when they tell him he’s healed enough to be moved, and they’re sending him home to finish his recovery, he only nods along like a child’s puppet. He can’t summon the energy to be angry or upset or dismayed; instead he signs the forms next to the neat pencil crosses, signs away his career and the past ten years of his life as though it has all been for nothing, and allows himself to be packed up and shipped back to the UK like worn-out equipment being sent for scrap.

The hospital they send him to is as utterly unlike Afghanistan as it’s possible to be. A place out in the countryside, with green trees and birds singing and daises in the grass: this is his home country, and yet he looks out on it and feels like a traveller in a strange land. The quiet gets under his skin and drives him half-insane: the hospital’s founders had clearly thought it would be _peaceful_ , being away from the noise and bustle of a city, but John finds no rest there, by night or by day.

His sleep is haunted by dreams of the desert, the ambush that cost him his career and almost his life. In his dreams it’s somehow far more terrifying than the real thing had been and John wakes several times a night, his sheets soaked through with sweat and his heart pounding like a frightened rabbit’s.

During the day he limps about. He’s developed a nagging, phantom pain in his leg and he’s a bloody doctor, he knows damn well that it’s psychosomatic even without a young, only-just-qualified junior doctor earnestly explaining to him that it’s all in his mind. It still doesn’t stop pain spearing sharply up his leg the moment he tries to put his weight on it.

The bathroom mirror shows John a multitude of lines on his face, lines put there by the desert sun and scored deeper by stress and pain. He’s issued with a plastic NHS cane for his limp, and each morning he wakes and looks at himself in the mirror, sees the hollows in his cheeks and the dark shadows beneath his eyes, and he can’t believe that he’s the same man who used to be able to carry a fully loaded pack in the baking sun, or lift a wounded comrade on his shoulders.

John misses his team desperately, the camaraderie and companionship. He misses the life he had: the sense of purpose and the knowledge that he was doing good, useful work.

He stays at the hospital as long as he can bear it, and when it’s time to move on he chooses the first destination that comes into his head: London.

\----------

In London John is allocated a grey, empty bedsit that he hates instantly, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that it’s perfectly suited to his grey, empty life. Each day yawns bleak and dull, dull, _dull_ ahead of him when he wakes every morning, and John has to physically force himself out of bed. Once up and about, he counts the hours until he can go back to bed again and seek a respite from his life.

Theoretically he’s supposed to be looking for a job; his Army pension is enough to live modestly, but the cost of living in London is anything but modest. And that’s not even taking into account the fact that – culture shock and PTSD aside – if he has to spend the rest of his days unemployed then he’s going to be climbing the walls.

Eventually John’s financial situation becomes too parlous to ignore and he’s forced to acknowledge that, however grudgingly, he does need to do something if he wants to stay in London. And by God he wants to stay: he knows himself well enough to know that, however bored and listless he may be here, he’d go mad inside a month if he were forced to leave the city for a smaller, more affordable country town, stifling in its bucolic pace.

Also, in London, he keeps getting ambushed by memories of Sherlock. It’s ridiculous, after all this time, and surely not healthy, but John doesn’t care. There’s little enough here in his present to give him joy, and so he makes no effort to put the thoughts out of his head when he walks across the Hungerford Bridge and remembers standing there with Sherlock, or passes through Hyde Park and thinks of Sherlock standing close at John’s shoulder, deducing passers-by from the tiniest, most insignificant details of their attire, to John’s unfeigned delight.

He spends so much time in his head, in the past, that it’s no surprise he doesn’t hear Mike Stamford call him. It’s only when Mike gets up to chase after him huffing and red-faced that John registers the repetitions of his name. He catches the flicker of someone in his peripheral vision and his hand tightens on his cane automatically, ready to lash out, before he turns to face Mike and the back of his mind whispers _Civilian, not a threat._

He hates feeling so vulnerable – a young man old before his time, stumping along with a walking stick – and it makes him more sullen with Mike than is remotely fair. But Mike, forgiving, kind-hearted soul that he is, only buys John coffee, and offers to put him in touch with a potential flatmate.

‘I have to warn you, though,’ Mike says in the taxi on the way to Bart’s, ‘he’s a bit of an odd one. Has his little habits, you know.’

‘What sort of habits?’ John frowns. ‘He’s not some weird pervert, is he?’

‘No, no,’ Mike exclaims. He has his wallet out already; he has the air of someone unused to taking taxis and John strongly suspects that this one is in deference to his limp. He’s trying very hard to be grateful for Mike’s thoughtfulness rather than surly at his weakness being tacitly highlighted yet again.

‘He’s just...’ Mike says, searching for words, ‘a bit bookish. Antisocial, you know. He doesn’t really take to strangers.’

John grunts. ‘Fine by me.’

He’s hardly in the mood to live with a chatterbox – he can barely bring himself to consider living with anyone at all, save that his bank balance tells him he has to. As long as the bloke pays half the rent and bills without quibbling and is sufficiently quiet for John’s strained temper then John honestly couldn’t give a toss what sort of social life he does or doesn’t have.

At last they arrive at Bart’s; Mike pays – waving away John’s money, and making John grit his teeth and try to sound thankful rather than resentful – and leads John down to one of the old lab rooms. Things are drastically different, though: gone are the worn old benches, and in their place are sleek white surfaces that John hardly dares touch in case he dirties them.

‘Bit different from my day,’ John says, his mouth running automatically as he gazes around the room and tries to take in all the changes. Mike gives him a wry sort of smile and John gets a flash of fellow-feeling from him: at least here it’s not only John who doesn’t feel at home.

The room’s only other occupant is a dark-haired man sitting at a bench, and the moment John’s gaze lands on him his stomach does a funny sort of quiver, just once, because it’s odd but from the side, his profile half-obscured by lab equipment, that man really looks an awful lot like...

‘Mike, can I use your phone? I’ve no signal on mine.’

God, it _is_ Sherlock. It has to be: it’s either him or his identical twin; John still hasn’t seen his face and Sherlock hasn’t seen him – all Sherlock’s attention is focussed on Mike – and when Mike looks at his phone, shrugs, and apologises for the lack of reception, John is ready.

‘Use mine,’ he says, trying to speak normally through the rushing in his ears. He squeezes his grip tighter on the hated cane, his palms suddenly sweaty and his heart racing, and stumps forwards.

How he wished there was some way of hiding the cane. Assuming that this _is_ Sherlock, and John hasn’t lost his mind enough to start accosting random, dark-haired men, this isn’t at all the way he would have chosen to meet Sherlock again.

He hadn’t expected to meet Sherlock at all: in his head Sherlock is forever twenty years old and in Cambridge, with his books and the dreaming spires and the punts on the Cam. But how could John have forgotten how much in love with London Sherlock was?

‘Thank you.’ At last the man turns, one long hand already outstretched for John’s phone but his attention still on his experiment on the bench, and John has to tighten his grip on his cane to keep from keeling over in shock.

It _is_ Sherlock. There’s no-one else on earth who has those distinctive, beautiful features, and when Sherlock finally lifts his eyes from the bench to look at the proffered phone and its owner, his eyes widen and his mouth actually opens in shock, and he takes a step back.

John swallows hard. Bad enough that he has to face the bathroom mirror every morning, it’s even worse that he has to see the changes war has wrought in him reflected on the face of an old lover.

But the next moment Sherlock shuts his mouth tightly, nods brusquely at John, and turns away, plucking John’s phone out of his hand. The moment of reconnection can’t have lasted longer than a couple of seconds; if it wasn’t for the betraying pallor on Sherlock’s cheeks – he’s always pale, but the blood has drained from his face until he’s positively ghostly – John could almost believe he’d imagined it.

At least until Sherlock, still engrossed with John’s phone – he hasn’t had to ask how to use it, John notes: Sherlock always _was_ able to pick up something new and grasp it instantly – clears his throat. ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’

‘Afghanistan,’ John replies, pleased that Sherlock remembers.

But then a second later he realises that no, they’d lost touch long before he went to Afghanistan, and he falters ‘Hang on, how did you–’

‘How do you feel about the violin?’ Sherlock asks.

‘Er-’

‘And sometimes I don’t speak for days on end.’

_I know_ , John thinks, _I remember._

He’s not surprised in the slightest that Sherlock has already realised why Mike has brought John here, but Sherlock seems to prefer the pretence that they’re strangers and John is still reeling too much from the shock, so he goes through the motions.

‘Yeah,’ John says, ‘that’s fine.’

Sherlock throws out a couple of additional comments that John hardly hears, his attention far too engaged with looking at Sherlock and noting the lines of his profile, the way his hair curls over his nape that is at once so dearly familiar John can’t believe there was ever a time he could have forgotten it.

It’s only when Sherlock makes to leave that John finds his voice. ‘I... hang on. That’s it? You’re just leaving now? I don’t know a thing about you; I–’

He’s speaking figuratively, and thinking of the past decade, but Sherlock glances pointedly at Mike before launching into his reply. ‘I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic; quite correctly, I’m afraid.’

And with that, he’s gone.

Well, John can’t blame him for not wanting a proper reunion in front of Mike, and John swallows hard before turning to Mike, trying to look normal and not as utterly pole-axed as he feels.

He’s in luck. Mike smiles at him, clearly without the slightest idea that John’s world has just been turned upside down. ‘Yeah. He’s always like that.’

_I know,_ John thinks. _**I remember.**_


	7. Chapter 7

That night John’s thoughts are in a whirl but, with the sort of superhuman effort and self-discipline that had allowed him to sleep every night in Afghanistan without worrying about what the morning would bring, he forces himself to reserve judgement. After all, the Sherlock that John knew was an intensely private person; small wonder if he hadn’t wanted to divulge the history of his love life in front of Mike. And John doesn’t blame Mike for not recognising Sherlock from their university days: Mike can hardly be faulted for not knowing a bloke he glimpsed in a bar over a decade ago, particularly given that at the time Mike was pissed enough not to recognise his own mother.

So John makes himself go about his chores – such as they are; the lack of purpose is one of the most frustrating things about his new civilian life – with grim, single-minded focus, and tries not to count the hours until the evening, only succumbing to temptation once and Googling ‘Sherlock Holmes’.

When it’s time to leave, John puts on his smartest shirt, combs his hair, and checks himself over in the mirror before he goes. God knows what this meeting will bring, but given what they were to each other then John would prefer to look his best. Particularly given that war has already aged his face beyond his years.

He arrives early, but only by a few moments: almost at once a taxi pulls up and Sherlock steps out, all dark curls and gorgeous cheekbones, and John’s stomach gives a little flutter at the sight of him. How could he have forgotten how beautiful Sherlock was?

‘Mr Holmes,’ he hears his mouth say, and immediately wants to kick himself. There’s something about Sherlock as he is now that discourages any sort of informality, but still...

‘Sherlock, please,’ says Sherlock, with a small, polite smile, and not the slightest trace of familiarity. If it wasn’t for that moment in the lab, John would wonder whether Sherlock has had some sort of memory lapse or whether John has changed sufficiently to be unrecognisable even to someone who used to lie beside him and touch his face with long fingers.

But there’s no time to wonder too much, for the next instant Sherlock bounds up to the door and – after the sort of inappropriate joke that would have made a younger John bite his lip and then laugh anyway – they’re inside and up the stairs and John is looking around a large, airy sitting room.

‘Oh yes,’ he says, thinking aloud, loving the large sash windows and the comfortably worn furniture that already make it look like home. There’s clutter everywhere – haphazard piles of papers and stacks of dirty dishes and glassware in the kitchen; clearly the previous occupant was too bloody lazy to take their rubbish with them when they moved out – and the wallpaper is frankly _alarming_ , but beneath all that it’s cosy, welcoming, and John stumps round the corner to peer into the kitchen.

‘This could be very nice,’ he says, looking around. ‘Very nice indeed.’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock says, the first hint of a real smile on his face and John will be damned if Sherlock doesn’t sound almost _shy_. ‘I thought so. My thoughts, ah, precisely.’

John smiles back at him and opens his mouth to offer to help clear all the rubbish out so that the pair of them can move in properly–

–and then has the odd sensation that he’s missed a vital step in the conversation somewhere, because the next instant Sherlock is fluttering around in embarrassment, gathering up stacks of paper and moving them to other, identical-looking places on the table, and John is fighting hard not to gape at him. Because Sherlock’s room at Cambridge had always had the neat, almost monk-like orderliness of a man who wanted to be able to lay his hand on a particular book immediately, and apparently Sherlock has either let this slip, or his all-consuming curiosity has grown beyond controllable proportions. And John also has to admit that he’s staring because _this_ , here, is the first hint that this cool, distantly polite man is the same person John knew all those years ago: the pinkness of Sherlock’s cheeks, and the excuses he makes in the face of John’s imagined disapproval.

‘So this...’ John begins, gesturing vaguely at the room.

_This is all **yours**?_ , he wants to say. Or perhaps _This is the least likely thing I imagined happening to me, I thought I’d never see you again. Do you have any_ idea _what the chances are of this happening?_

‘So what do you think, then, Dr Watson?’

Mrs Hudson has followed them up into the flat, and she picks up an errant cup and saucer and looks at John. She seems anxious for the rooms – and for the still-tidying Sherlock – to meet with John’s approval, and John decides then and there that he likes her.

‘There’s another bedroom upstairs,’ she continues blithely, ‘if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.’

Although her anxiety apparently doesn’t stop her making personal remarks, because _God_. John’s face burns.

‘Of course we’ll be needing two,’ he manages. He looks to Sherlock to see how he’s taking all this: has Sherlock told her about him? She at least knows that Sherlock is gay, that much is obvious. But Sherlock has turned away, taking off his coat and scarf, and John can’t see his face.

Mrs Hudson says something in reply, something about her neighbour next door but John doesn’t hear. He’s arrested by the sight of Sherlock’s nape, soft and pale and vulnerable in the cold winter light from the window. He still has his hair cut with a tapered neck, with that one dark lock precisely in the middle that used to curl around John’s forefinger as though it had been _made_ for him.

When Sherlock turns back to face him John has to look away; he distracts himself with plumping up an idiosyncratic little Union Jack cushion and sinking into the cosier of the two armchairs, stifling a grunt at the sharp, familiar flare of pain up his leg.

‘So,’ he says, all too conscious of Mrs Hudson pottering about in the kitchen, ‘I looked you up on the internet last night.’

‘Oh.’ Sherlock looks surprised but pleased at this, and John wants to shake his head at him. How could Sherlock honestly imagine, even for a moment, that John wouldn’t still want to know everything about him? Sherlock turns to face him, his initial flare of eagerness quickly smothered, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels; he’s trying just a _bit_ too hard to look casual, and John is delighted to find he can _see_ this about Sherlock, as certain of it as his own name.

‘Anything interesting?’ Sherlock’s feigned casualness doesn’t quite disguise his eagerness for John’s opinion.

John smiles. ‘Found your website: _The Science of Deduction_.’

A corner of Sherlock’s mouth tugs upward. ‘What did you think?’

‘You said you could identify a software designer by his tie, and an airline pilot by his left thumb.’

‘I can,’ Sherlock says, and surely it’s not John’s imagination that he preens slightly at this.

Sherlock, in his younger days, was good, but he was never _that_ good, and John looks dubiously at him, prompting Sherlock to add ‘And I can read your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.’

‘Yes,’ John says, struggling to remember if he ever mentioned to Sherlock that he had a sister, ‘how _did_ you know about–’

But Sherlock isn’t looking anymore; his attention has shifted palpably to something happening outside in the street, and John’s questions falters and dies in the absence of that grey-green gaze of Sherlock’s focus.

_God_ , he’s pretty; Mrs Hudson enters with a newspaper, tutting over the story on the front page but John is barely paying attention, trying too hard not to ogle Sherlock standing in the light from the window, and quickly looking away when Sherlock turns back around.

‘Four,’ Sherlock says, in reply to Mrs Hudson’s comment, ‘there’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.’

‘How,’ John interrupts, ‘on _earth_ do you know that?’

He gets his answer a few moments later, as a man enters their sitting room and speaks to Sherlock with no greeting or pre-amble: ‘Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.’

‘What’s new about this one?’ No need for explanations, apparently, and their obvious familiarity – both with each other and with whatever they’re discussing – makes John feel excluded. ‘You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.’

The grey-haired man pulls a face. ‘You know how they never leave notes?’

‘Yes?’ Sherlock is almost quivering with excitement, and John wonders if the stranger can see it also.

‘This one did.’ By the look on his face, this answer is yes, and John wonders who this man is, with a tiny twinge of something that he doesn’t want to admit is jealousy.

John listens to the rest of their exchange while hoping fervently that his face doesn’t reflect even a fraction of the emotions swirling inside him, and when the man leaves Sherlock holds his nonchalant pose barely long enough for the man to get out of earshot before breaking into a delighted gurgle.

‘Yes!’ He does a little hop-skip, his excitement overflowing, his face lit up with joy. John watches, sourly. _He_ used to be able to make Sherlock look like that; it’s clear what this man is to Sherlock, then.

‘Four serial suicides and now a note,’ Sherlock crows, springing into action, ‘it’s Christmas.’

He darts around, gathering up his coat and a soft leather roll of something, and John’s leg twinges as he watches Sherlock’s easy grace: once upon a time he would have been able to keep up with Sherlock when he was like this but not now. John doesn’t even risk standing to bid Sherlock goodbye, he doesn’t want to have to struggle to his feet where once he would have moved without a second thought, secure in his command of his body, and see his weakness reflected in Sherlock’s expression.

It sets him on edge, his temper fraying, to the point that he actually snaps at his prospective landlady after her ill-timed attempt to be helpful.

‘Sorry,’ he exclaims at once, ashamed of himself at the look on her face. ‘I’m so sorry, I just...’ he knocks the cane savagely against his leg, ‘this bloody thing.’

It feels like a _thing_ , not like a part of his body that belongs to him but like something useless and broken that he has to drag around with him for the rest of his life, and when she makes a sympathetic comment he smiles bitterly when she’s turned away. So this is all he can expect now: a life of sitting by the fire and sympathy from old ladies.

He’s engrossed in the paper – apparently attractive grey-haired bloke that Sherlock seems to know so well is DI Lestrade of Scotland Yard – when a noise makes him look up. His hand flies to his cane, although God knows what he thinks he’s going to do with it, Christ, he hates feeling so _vulnerable_ like this, unable to stand and fight–

Sherlock stands in the doorway, watching him quietly.

‘You’re a doctor,’ Sherlock says. ‘In fact you’re an _Army_ doctor.’

_You know I am_ , John doesn’t say, merely nods. He never remembered Sherlock having that tendency to state the obvious, in fact he thought Sherlock abhorred it.

‘Any good?’

_That_ stings John’s pride. He lifts his chin and, when that’s not enough, struggles to his feet. ‘ _Very_ good.’

Sherlock’s gaze is thoughtful, and as he approaches John swallows and wets his lips. Sherlock is intent upon him in a way that he’s not been since they met again, making John’s heart pound wildly, and Sherlock stops when he’s close enough for John to _smell_ him, the subtle traces of the aftershave he wears, and the expensive wool of that enormous coat.

‘Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths.’

God, if Sherlock only knew... ‘Yes.’

‘Bit of trouble too, I bet.’

The memories are there: sharp and immediate, almost overwhelming but Sherlock’s presence keeps them at bay. ‘Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime.’

Sherlock’s eyes sparkle wickedly. ‘Want to see some more?’

And when he looks like that then John’s answer is yes, had always been yes and will always be yes, whatever the question, whatever Sherlock wants of him.

\----------

The taxi ride is something of a blur: John voices a question about where they’re going and then finds himself sitting listening open-mouthed while Sherlock reels off his deductions, and when he’s finished John is too stunned to voice any of the _other_ questions that are queuing up on his tongue, like _Where the hell have you been?_ and _Who gave you the idea of becoming a consulting detective, it’s mad but it’s utterly brilliant, it’s perfect for you_ , or even _Please tell me you knew I meant it for the best, when I broke up with you. I was trying to be kind; I didn’t think there was going to be enough of me left to come home to you._

But just as John rallies himself and says ‘So, um, you’re–’ Sherlock frowns at him, flicks a deliberate glance towards the cabbie in front, and returns to staring pointedly out of the window. John looks at Sherlock’s impassive profile and heaves an inward sigh.

Apparently Sherlock’s horror of having personal conversations in public hasn’t changed: hell, even in private John would practically have to wrestle him into submission and sit on him before Sherlock would discuss anything. Or ambush him after sex, when Sherlock was soft and spent and sleepy, and shit, that’s really not a useful memory to be indulging in at this point. It feels vaguely wrong to be thinking those things about Sherlock when he’s sitting _right there_ , buttoned up and impassive, even if this silent, grave man seems a different person entirely to the tumble-haired, laughing young man John used to touch and kiss and hold.

They arrive at the crime scene and John follows Sherlock as he approaches the police tape. Sherlock had displayed such ease and camaraderie with DI Lestrade, the sort he gave to very few but John counsels himself to wait and see. It might be that that was how Sherlock acts with all the members of his newly adopted organisation...

...except that what follows is _awful_. It’s Sherlock being cruel, in his own very specific way, as only he knows how; John saw glimpses of this Sherlock in the younger man, but this version is... colder, somehow. Colder, and harder, and everything that the younger man had declared he wanted to be so that barbs wouldn’t pierce his skin, and everything that John had hoped Sherlock would never become. His ears fairly burn with embarrassment for the young woman and her partner, even as he longs to shout _Who the hell are you calling a freak? That’s another human being you’re talking about, show some professionalism, at least._

Once in the house, John wants to put a hand on Sherlock’s elbow, or back, and... he’s not sure. Not ask him if he’s okay, because even the younger, softer Sherlock would have shrugged John’s query off but _something_ , damn it. But that would be presuming an intimacy he no longer has, and DI Lestrade is standing there to greet them when they enter and the moment is gone.

‘Who’s this?’

‘He’s with me,’ Sherlock says, barely sparing John a glance, his chin high, and John wonders whether the couple outside are the only ones embarrassed by that little encounter. Surely that’s not the way Sherlock would have chosen to present himself to someone who, once upon a time, he was in love with.

What they find in the top room of that dank, musty house is sad. John has grown more or less inured to death on the battlefield – bloody and violent death, even – but this is different. Civilians are supposed to be _safe_ , here, and John exhales through his nose and steadies himself.

Sherlock, though... Sherlock is detached, in the way that the best surgeons have to be, when confronted with a child hit by a drunk driver, or a teenager stabbed simply because he had the latest mobile phone, or supported the wrong football team. He prowls forward, looking intently at Jennifer Wilson’s body, touching her coat collar and easing her umbrella out of her pocket. He lifts her hair back from her face, soft as a lover, and lets it drape back once he’s seen what he needs to, before coaxing her ring off her finger.

Apparently satisfied, Sherlock replaces the ring and stands.

‘Got anything?’ DI Lestrade presses.

Sherlock shrugs, pulling his phone out. ‘Not much.’

‘She’s German.’ John looks over at the doorway, and sees that Anderson bloke standing there. ‘ _Rache_. It’s German for revenge.’

Oh God, who let him up here; despite having only just met the man his slightly patronising air gets right up John’s nose, and when he continues, ‘She could be trying to tell us something–’ Sherlock quickly walks over to the door.

‘Yes, thank you for your input,’ he bites out, closing the door in the Anderson’s face. It’s spectacularly rude, but all the same John has to turn his head away and chew on the inside of his cheek to smother a grin.

His amusement stops when Sherlock turns to him. ‘Dr Watson, what do you think?’

‘Of the message?’ How in hell should he know what–

‘Of the body. You’re a medical man.’

DI Lestrade starts to protest but Sherlock faces him down, and once again their obvious familiarity leaves John with the distinct sensation that he’s present at a conversation he shouldn’t be hearing.

At last DI Lestrade turns away, lowering his eyes, but even when Sherlock says, ‘Dr Watson?’, with just the slightest stress on his title, John can’t help but look to Lestrade for permission.

‘Oh, do as he says.’ Lestrade waves an irritable hand at the body. ‘Help yourself.’

John moves to the woman’s side and kneels awkwardly, trying not to think about the strangeness of Sherlock’s voice pronouncing his professional title in seriousness when, once upon a time, he used to do it in fun. His leg twinges and throbs at him, but John grits his teeth and steadies himself against his cane.

‘Well?’ Sherlock rumbles at him, all deep voice and hypnotic eyes and curls falling forward into his face and that _mouth_... and dear God John needs to remember that this is a crime scene. His PTSD chose a fine time to release the grip on his libido that has kept him from noticing anyone even halfway attractive since his return.

‘What am I doing here?’ John hisses.

Sherlock’s eyes gleam at him. ‘Helping me make a point.’

‘I’m _supposed_ to be helping you pay the rent.’

‘Yes, well, this is more fun.’

‘ _Fun_?’ John almost recoils, until a throb from his leg reminds him that his position is a bit precarious. ‘There’s a woman lying dead here.’

‘Perfectly sound analysis, Doctor, but I was hoping you’d go deeper,’ Sherlock says, almost purrs, and John has to look away. That quip is funny; God help him, it shouldn’t be but it is, and John looks down at the poor woman lying in front of him and tries not to dwell on the thought that it sounds almost as though Sherlock is _flirting_ with him.

But despite Sherlock making so much of his medical training John is able to tell him only the barest amount, certainly nothing Sherlock couldn’t have worked out for himself. After John’s few, stumbling efforts DI Lestrade comes back into the room; Sherlock rises to his feet – all supple, lithe grace – and John follows, gripping his cane and levering himself up like an old man as his leg throbs, face hot with embarrassment.

Neither of the others pays him the slightest bit of attention: Lestrade only has eyes for Sherlock, who is reeling off a string of deductions that leave even John open-mouthed and gaping at him.

‘That’s brilliant,’ he murmurs when Sherlock pauses for breath because God, it _is_. Sherlock’s deductions that he used to murmur to John when they were out walking in London were never as detailed or as advanced as this; _how_ had neither of them ever hit upon the idea of Sherlock working for the police force? His deductions, that others found so intrusive, were a godsend in a situation like this.

John only realised he’d spoken loud enough to be heard when Sherlock turned to look at him.

‘Sorry,’ he mutters.

‘Cardiff?’ Lestrade says, and John heaves a sigh of relief when Sherlock’s keen gaze sweeps away from him.

Sherlock continues but his next set of deductions is, if anything, even more impressive, until John can’t help but exclaim anew. It’s foolish, and John tries hard to quash the thought as soon as it forms, but it feels almost as though Sherlock is _showing off_ for him; the impossibly brilliant leaps of logic, and the tiny, pleased curl to the corner of his mouth at John’s praise.

Except that, almost before John knows what’s happening, Sherlock is ranting about the dead woman’s suitcase – with a fervour exceeding anything John has seen so far – and clattering down the stairs and away, without so much as a glance at John.

Left behind at the top of the stairs, the silence seems even heavier in the wake of Sherlock’s noisy, excited departure. Beside John, DI Lestrade shifts his weight and growls something under his breath, and when he turned and their gazes meet John suddenly feels horribly out of place, standing there in his blue overall and trying to tell the Met forensics team how to do their jobs.

‘Yeah, I’ll...’ John coughs, dropping his gaze and trying to look less awkward than he feels, ‘I’ll see myself out.’

\----------

Walking stiffly away from Lauriston Gardens, his hand white-knuckled on his cane, John jeers at himself. Sherlock, trying to impress someone like John? John is deluding himself; Sherlock is young and gorgeous and brilliant and could have anyone he wants, assuming he’s not already shagging that DI (surely no-one would tolerate being spoken to like that unless they were either possessed of superhuman patience, or getting frequent, fantastic sex).

Either way, John must be mad to imagine that Sherlock has eyes for John; the only feelings Sherlock would have for John these days are surely pity, and that’s the _last_ thing John wants from Sherlock. Possibly this flatshare thing is a mistake: it’s been a surprise to see Sherlock again – a mixed one, but the balance is still tipping towards favourable – but perhaps it might be more sensible to just go their separate ways.

So when the man in the black car kidnaps him and starts to question him about Sherlock, John’s fierce surge of protectiveness feels as though it comes from nowhere, and surprises even him.

\----------

Back at his bedsit, John sinks down to sit on the edge of the bed and buries his face in his hands. A glance at his watch tells him that it’s not yet nine o’clock, but it feels like much more than a mere couple of hours have passed since John came to view a flat and got pulled into Sherlock’s world.

His phone buzzes and, wearily, John pulls it out of his jacket. He can’t imagine who would be texting him at this hour – his social life since his return is basically non-existent – but as soon as he sees Sherlock’s name at the head of the text his heart gives a traitorous little leap.

‘Steady,’ he mutters to himself, swiping the screen to unlock it. It might be an enquiry as to what he thinks of the new flat, although Sherlock had been so worked up when he ran off that John would be frankly astounded if that were true. It’s probably too much to hope for that it’s an apology for leaving so peremptorily.

As John suspected, it’s neither of the above. Instead it’s a summons.

John stares at it for a long moment. What on earth could Sherlock want with a wounded ex-Army doctor who’s already proved that he can’t tell Sherlock anything Sherlock won’t deduce for his own brilliant self?

But when his phone chirps at him again, John doesn’t hesitate but picks up his cane – and his gun; something about this raises the hairs on his nape, and after this long surviving in warzones he’s learned to trust his instincts – and makes for the door.

\----------

Back at Baker Street Mrs Hudson doesn’t seem at all surprised to see him, but merely lets him in – ‘Ran off, did he?’, as though Sherlock is a badly behaved and excitable dog – and waves him upstairs with blithe unconcern.

In the living room of the flat, John finds Sherlock sprawled on the sofa. His left sleeve is rolled up, baring an expanse of forearm that seems almost shocking in someone as primly buttoned up as Sherlock, and John just has time to glance at it – in lieu of staring at how, in that position, Sherlock’s clothes highlight the length of his thighs and the narrowness of his waist and hips – when Sherlock presses palm to the crook his left elbow and exhales heavily, a look of serenity stealing over his face.

‘What’s wrong?’ John demands brusquely, as the alternative is to stare at this vision of unselfconscious male beauty until Sherlock catches him at it.

Sherlock opens his eyes.

‘You came,’ he says, and for a brief, unguarded moment he looks surprised. It makes him look young; young and much less sure of himself than the brilliant, arrogant genius who’d made all those incredible deductions and then ditched John without a second glance, and John is momentarily speechless.

‘Of course I came,’ he says at last, trying to sound calm and only sounding terse. ‘A bloke gets message like that, what else is he going to do?’

‘Hmm.’ Sherlock looks away, his uncertain expression already replaced with something far more inscrutable. ‘I need you to–’

But John ignores this, having just caught sight of what’s on Sherlock’s forearm as his hand falls away.

‘Sherlock, are those nicotine patches?’

Sherlock gives a deep rumble of assent.

‘ _Three_?’

‘It’s a three-patch problem,’ Sherlock says, sound almost Zen now, doubtless from the massive surge of nicotine and dopamine hitting his bloodstream, and John stumps quickly over to him.

‘You’re not supposed to use that many at once,’ he says, leaning his cane against the sofa and surreptitiously bracing the side of his leg against it in case his bad leg gives out. He reaches for Sherlock’s wrist, lifts his arm, and starts plucking the things off him.

Sherlock’s wrist is warm in John’s hands, sinewy strength overlying fragile bones, much like the man himself. His forearm has a sparse dusting of hair, his veins faintly blue through pale skin, and John clutches it and tries to ignore the sensation of Sherlock’s lifeblood pulsing sure and steady under his fingers.

It only take a moment to pick off the patches, and when he’s done John is tempted to keep hold of Sherlock’s wrist for just a few seconds longer, but Sherlock watches him with his keen, inscrutable cat’s eyes and John lets go.

‘I–’ Sherlock begins, and stops to clear his throat when his voice cracks slightly, ‘I need you to hand me my phone.’

It’s so far from what John was expecting that for a moment he can only gaze at Sherlock.

‘You need me to...’ he says faintly, before rallying. ‘Sherlock, I was the other side of town!’

Sherlock shrugs, as best he can stretched out on the sofa. ‘There was no rush.’

John seized his cane and stamps over to the table, following Sherlock’s languid wave, and scoops up Sherlock’s phone to slap it into his outstretched hand (manfully resisting the temptation to drop it straight onto his balls). Sherlock hums his thanks, but the next instant he presses it between his palms, stares thoughtfully up at the ceiling, and announces, ‘No, I’ve changed my mind, you should do it.’

There’s still a faint crawl of irritated tension across John’s shoulders from being dragged all the way across town for this nonsense, but in a sudden flash he he sees the funny side and has to bite his lip.

Sherlock dragged him _all the way across town_ , just to make John watch him lounge on the sofa like a Victorian consumptive, pass a phone that he was perfectly capable of fetching for himself, and send a bloody _text message_. If this isn’t Sherlock trying to get John’s attention then he doesn’t know what is, and John wants to tell Sherlock wryly that all these theatrics are unnecessary, he’s been unable to think about anything _but_ Sherlock since they met again in Barts.

He doesn’t though. He merely holds his annoyed tone all the way through taking Sherlock’s dictation and sending the text, and when the phone rings two minutes later John isn’t paying as much attention to it as he is to Sherlock. Sherlock’s relaxed pose of moments ago has vanished: he’s sitting bolt upright, his face flushed slightly and eyes glittering, and when the phone abruptly stops ringing he fairly vaults off the sofa.

\----------

They end up in a small Italian place, where the owner appears to think the world of Sherlock – making John smile to himself – but the smile is wiped off his face just as abruptly when the owner, Angelo, refers to John as Sherlock’s date.

‘I’m...’ John begins awkwardly, ‘I’m not his–’

Too late, Angelo has already vanished and Sherlock has his nose buried in his menu, apparently riveted by the penne alla arrabiata and the tagliatelle primavera on offer, and John picks up his own menu in a thoughtful frame of mind. Sherlock seems to be quite familiar with this bloke. Surely he must have known that Angelo was going to take John for his date if they came here, and yet Sherlock brought him anyway.

Perhaps... John hardly dares to think it... perhaps all isn’t quite lost between them. When John had entered Baker Street to find Sherlock stretched out in that pose on the sofa, Sherlock must have heard the front door slam and John’s footsteps ascending the stairs, and yet he’d not moved from his sensuous sprawl. And now this...

His mind entirely elsewhere, John randomly chooses something off the menu when the young waiter comes to take their order, and hands the menu to him with barely a glance, too focussed on Sherlock.

This is the first time since they met again where they’ve been alone – more or less, John doesn’t count the background hum of chatter from the other diners – and where Sherlock appears to be focussed on the here and now, as opposed to lost in his thoughts.

John takes a deep breath. ‘Sherlock.’

Sherlock’s quicksilver eyes stop scanning the street outside and look at him. ‘Mmm?’

‘So d’you know... many people in London, then?’

Sherlock’s brow wrinkles. ‘ _Know_ many people?’

‘Yeah, you know.’ John clears his throat slightly. ‘Many friends here? Or, um, acquaintances? Boyfriend?’

John tries to toss the last one in casually, as though it doesn’t matter, but Sherlock’s gaze sharpens.

Slowly, Sherlock shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘Right.’ John’s stomach gives a traitorous little leap. ‘Ok. Good. So you’re unattached then. Just... um, just like me.’

‘John.’ Sherlock has abandoned his study of the street outside and frowns at him. ‘I’m... flattered by your interest, but I feel you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and I’m really not looking to–’

‘No, no, that’s not what I’m saying,’ John cuts him off. Lying through his teeth because really, that sort of _was_ what he had been saying, or at least implying very lightly, but apparently he hadn’t been as subtle as he’d hoped and a man has his pride.

‘Right. Okay.’ Sherlock relaxes, sighing a little, and John tries not to feel stung at this obvious sign of Sherlock’s relief that John isn’t going to press for any resumption of what they had previously. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ John says grimly, and thinks to himself _Well that’s_ me _told, then._


	8. Chapter 8

John doesn’t catch his breath until they’re back in Baker Street leaning against the wall, high on endorphins and glee, laughing at Sherlock’s joke. God, he’s _laughing_ : he can’t remember the last time he even so much as smiled and here he is completely cracking up, and for a few moments he just lets it all go, giving a high-pitched giggle that he probably ought to be embarrassed about, save that Sherlock is right with him, leaning against the wall flushed and grinning and looking so very kissable.

Before John can entertain too many thoughts in that direction – futile thoughts, after their conversation in the restaurant – there’s a knock at the door, and when John answers it...

His leg. Holy shit, his leg; ridiculous as it sounds, he’d completely forgotten about it in Sherlock’s mad rush from the restaurant, but John had walked and run and even leaped across a six-foot gap, all unaided. He thanks Angelo and turns back to Sherlock, a huge smile on his face. Bloody mad, _brilliant_ Sherlock, who never could resist a puzzle or a challenge; barely twenty-four hours after John walked back into his life again and already he’s done what John has spent several dull, excruciating months failing to do with various therapists. Sherlock is smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his mouth splitting into a smug grin.

‘You...’ John says, approaching Sherlock, who lounges against the wall and smiles down at him. ‘I can’t believe you–’

‘Sherlock.’

It’s Mrs Hudson, pale and upset, and Sherlock’s laughter dies as he focuses on her. ‘Mrs Hudson?’

‘Upstairs,’ she says tearfully.

Immediately Sherlock turns, the smile wiped off his face as though it had never been, and he dashes up the stairs. John follows him – taking the risers two at a time just because he _can_ – with his heart pounding again. Let them come, whoever it is that’s got Mrs Hudson so worried and Sherlock in such a panic; John will take them all on. He feels invincible, as though he could run up a mountain or conquer the world, he gets to the top of the stairs and he’s barely even winded.

For a moment he thinks that they’ve interrupted a break-in in progress, save that Sherlock isn’t laying a hand on any of the thieves but rather standing in the middle of the room looking lost and upset and also _furious_ , with a face like thunder. John’s confusion only increases when he sees Lestrade lounging in the green leather armchair that Sherlock was perching on only a few hours ago.

‘What are you doing?’ Sherlock demands Lestrade, who hasn’t so much as twitched at Sherlock’s precipitous entry.

‘Well I knew you’d find the case,’ Lestrade says, tilting his head back so he can look Sherlock in the eye. ‘I’m not stupid.’

‘You can’t just break into my flat.’

‘And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.’

‘Well what do you call this, then?’

Sherlock sounds beleaguered; John watches him facing down a dozen of the Met, and he unconsciously clenches his fist as Sherlock whirls around, glaring at all the people pawing through his belongings.

‘It’s a drugs bust,’ Lestrade says, sounding far too cheerful about it, and John can’t help himself: he laughs.

That’s the most ridiculous excuse he’s ever heard, and particularly for Sherlock. Barring his current untidiness – which John suspects may be just Sherlock not having had time to properly unpack – the Sherlock John knew was quiet, almost aesthetic in his attitude to food, drink, and recreational substances. John steps forward.

‘Seriously?’ he says. ‘This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?’

Lestrade’s focus shifts off Sherlock and over to John, and John subtly puts his shoulders back and lifts his chin, ready to take him on. Off to one side, Sherlock says his name but John ignores him; Sherlock has just had John walking and running and leaping across rooftops, all though his stubborn refusal to admit that here was a problem he couldn’t solve. It was a gamble – a cocky, presumptuous gamble – but it paid off and right now John _adores_ him for it.

And so he continues, with the confidence of years of acquaintance: ‘I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, and you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational.’

‘ _John_.’ Sherlock’s voice is urgent and thrumming now, and Sherlock himself is standing by John’s side. ‘John, you probably want to shut up now.’

‘Yeah,’ John scoffs, breaking Lestrade’s gaze to meet Sherlock’s eyes, ‘but I mean, come on...’

But as John meets Sherlock’s gaze, Sherlock doesn’t have the indignant expression of the falsely accused. Instead he looks hunted, even _guilty_ , and John’s mouth slows to a halt as his brain presents him with a conclusion he can’t quite believe.

‘No,’ John says, disbelieving. He can’t have done, not _Sherlock_ , not the brilliant young man John was in love with all those years ago.

‘What?’ Sherlock says, frowning slightly.

‘ _You?_ ’ John says, stupefied by the need to assimilate this new information into the picture he has of Sherlock, and knows instantly that it’s the wrong reply.

‘Shut up,’ Sherlock spits, his face twisting into a scowl, and he stalks away to Lestrade.

They argue, but it’s all background noise to John, whose head reels. What in God’s name possessed Sherlock to try drugs? The young man John knew was brilliant, so full of promise, and try as he might John can’t reconcile that picture with that of an addict.

John is a mere observer in what follows. Sherlock and Lestrade’s bickering – and oh, John doesn’t care for Lestrade’s tone of voice when he addresses Sherlock, not at all – then Sherlock’s idea of checking the GPS locator on the smartphone account... it’s Sherlock at his undeniable, brilliant best, but John mouths his contributions with his brain entirely elsewhere. The only time he’s abruptly tugged back to the present is the look in Sherlock’s eyes, the flash of shock when John speaks without thinking in reply to Sherlock’s impatient question: ‘I don’t have to.’

Sherlock’s face flickers, his expression slipping for a moment. It makes him look younger, less sure of himself, and for a fraction of a moment John glimpses the young man he was in love with.

‘Sherlock...’ he says, one hand lifting in an aborted movement to reach for him. _I didn’t die_ , he wants to say, _I remembered you, out there, I remembered my promise, even though I was sure you’d long forgotten me..._

But the next instant Sherlock’s face shutters and he turns away from John, leaving John standing there and looking for words that don’t exist.

Once they’re into Jennifer Wilson’s account, there’s a great deal of noise and bustle about finding the phone before the battery dies, particularly once the GPS shows it to be at 221 Baker Street. John notices Sherlock standing about, looking quiet and preoccupied and almost lost, and he gets up from the table and Sherlock’s laptop and goes to him.

‘Sherlock?’ he says quietly, not wanting any of the others to hear, ‘you alright?’

‘Mmm,’ Sherlock says, vaguely.

John frowns. ‘You sure?’

This time Sherlock’s eyes flick to him and he twitches his arm out from under John’s hand. John hadn’t even realised he’d reached for Sherlock.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock says, cool and crisp as he turns away, and John steps back, stung slightly, before turning away to help Lestrade and his team with their search for the missing phone (which clearly, _patently_ can’t be here, since they texted the wretched thing and received a call in response, but Lestrade doesn’t look like a man in the mood to take anyone’s word on anything).

Later on John will curse himself for taking his eyes off Sherlock for even a _moment_ ; how could he possibly have forgotten that Sherlock’s pensive moods more often than not ended up in something wildly inadvisable?

Regrets are useless, though, and the fact of the matter is that he _does_ take his eyes off Sherlock, distracted by Lestrade and his team, who appear to be taking an inappropriate pleasure in pulling the pieces of Sherlock’s life apart – his eclectic belongings and his eccentric little treasures – and holding them up to mock like spiteful children.

John ignores the little pang when he looks out of the window and sees Sherlock getting into a cab and driving off; he’s being ridiculous, tagging after Sherlock like some lovesick teenager. So what if Sherlock has decided to hare off on another line of enquiry that he doesn’t deign to explain to the rest of them?

‘Why did he do that?’

John looks up, startled. Lestrade is standing in the doorway, shrugging into his coat, and John resists the urge to check behind himself to confirm that Lestrade really is speaking to _him_.

Lestrade continues. ‘Why did he have to leave?’

A laugh wells up, but John stifles it. He might once have been able to guess what the boy was thinking or feeling, but the man Sherlock has become... Instead John lifts his shoulders and lets them fall. ‘You know him better than I do.’

_Possibly_ much _better_ , John’s mind whispers, but he quiets himself.

‘I’ve known him for five years,’ Lestrade muses, tugging on his gloves, ‘and no, I don’t.’

John turns his head away to hide a smile that threatens to break out. Of course Sherlock had said he didn’t have a boyfriend but John suspects that, these days, Sherlock feels he owes John nothing in terms of information on his personal life. And even if Sherlock had been telling the truth, there was still a whole world of possibilities – like ‘friends with benefits’, or on-again-off-again bedmates – open to someone without a boyfriend. But Lestrade’s face shows clearly that he’s baffled by Sherlock and John can’t quell a rising sense of relief.

He makes a pretence of scratching his cheek, composes himself, and turns back to find Lestrade still watching him narrowly.

‘So why do you put up with him then?’ John asks, feigning disinterest, as though Sherlock doesn’t have one of the best and brightest brains John has ever seen, and the power to command a room with his presence.

Lestrade laughs briefly. ‘Because I’m desperate, that’s why.’ He makes to turn away but stops but look back at John, who shifts uncomfortably under Lestrade’s gaze. Lestrade seems to be assessing him, weighing something up, and whatever he sees makes him sigh and add: ‘And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And one day, if we’re very lucky, he might even be a good one.’

With no more than that – and a last sharply assessing look – he leaves, and John is left sitting in the silent, empty flat with the abrupt reminder that, while you’re quietly watching the world, the world is also watching you.

There doesn’t seem to be anything more to do; Sherlock will return when he’s ready to return, and John reluctantly picks up his coat. He has too much pride than to sit here awaiting Sherlock’s return, like an obedient housewife, however curious he might be to hear about what’s taken Sherlock off this time.

John is at the door when he hears the beep.

At first he can’t place it, but then it comes again and John realises it’s Sherlock’s computer. Sounds like the low battery warning; doubtless the thing will put itself into hibernate mode shortly, so no need for him to see to it.

But it beeps _again_ , insistent, and John abruptly turns on his heel and marches back over to it. He might as well shut it down himself, since he’s here, it’ll only take him a moment and then he can go back to his little bedsit and–

His eyes don’t make sense of what’s on screen. Instead of a pop-up message warning about low power levels, he sees that the map on Jennifer Wilson’s mobile account has moved, shifting away from Baker Street and to another part of London entirely. John blinks. That’s impossible, how can the phone have been here one moment and then the next halfway across town, it’s not as though the killer could have walked right into their midst, picked up the phone, and then left again, that’s just...

At that moment John has a flash of Sherlock getting into the cab and driving away and, like a flash of lightning, it’s all horribly, monstrously clear. Of course the killer is a cabbie – who else could instantly win the trust of such a diverse cross-section of people as the victims? And of _course_ Sherlock, that idiot, would get into a car with a serial killer without telling anyone where he was going or what he was doing, of course he would. Brilliant, mad, beautiful, _stupid_ man that he is, the next time John sees him he’s going to throttle him.

The computer beeps again and the map refreshes, showing that the phone – and, by inference, Sherlock and the serial killer who’s got him – has moved further away, and John moves as though galvanised by an electric shock, welcoming the rush of adrenaline like an old friend as it sharpens his senses and lends swiftness to his legs.

From that moment on things get slightly hazy. John is aware of little else on that cab ride save the warm weight of Sherlock’s laptop on his knee, with that maddening black dot still moving steadily away from him, and the pressure of his gun wedged into the waistband of his jeans. A least it’s moving, though: the first time the map refreshes and John finds the dot is now stationary, his heart leaps into his throat. God knows what’s happened to Sherlock.

‘Can’t you go any faster?’ he demands curtly, and the cabbie glances at him in the rear-view mirror before speeding up slightly.

The building – when they eventually arrive – has a black cab already parked outside; John gives it a cursory check before jogging past it and into the building.

God, this is like a nightmare. John runs down endless miles of dark corridors, glancing into still empty, classrooms and shouting Sherlock’s name. It’s an impossible task – the buildings are so enormous that it would take a team of men hours to search them – but John runs on with grim determination. He’s just had something of a minor miracle happen to him: against all expectations and odds, he has Sherlock back in his life and by God John plans to keep him this time, even if he has to drag Sherlock out of the very jaws of death to do it. What had possessed Sherlock to do this by himself? Why didn’t he ask anyone for help? Did he think it wouldn’t be given?

A glimpse, out of the corner of his eye, of artificial light. One of the classrooms isn’t dark but has light in it, and John follows his instincts and turns and bursts through the door, drawing his gun and ready to face down whatever madman has managed to charm Sherlock into his keeping. But he’s mistaken: this room is dark and empty, the light he glimpsed is coming from the window at the far end, and John dashes the length of the room and stares at the view from the window while his heart sinks down into his boots.

He’s in the wrong building.

There, close enough for John to see the elegant sweep of his coat, stands Sherlock, across the table from a little old man that John wouldn’t look twice at if he passed him in the supermarket.

John slams his fist on the window ledge, roars Sherlock’s name but Sherlock doesn’t twitch. Of course he doesn’t: there are two double-glazed windows and a good thirty or forty feet of space separating them, and John swears violently. Sherlock is holding something in his hand: one of those pills, and even as John watches he raises it to his mouth.

A shout of horror escapes John but it’s useless, Sherlock can’t hear him. Sherlock’s hand is almost at his mouth, nearer and nearer, and John wonders how an intelligent man can be so _fucking stupid_ even as he raises his gun and takes aim.

In the Army, they used to tell new recruits that they weren’t shooting at the enemy to save themselves. Instead they were shooting to save the life of the man next to them; for most of them it had been the only way to overcome the mental block against killing another human being, even in self-defence.

In this case John quite literally is shooting to save someone else instead of himself, but when the man next to him is Sherlock, hypnotised by this poisonous little snake of a man, then John finds it’s a very easy decision to make.

He holds his aim, exhales steadily, and fires.


	9. Chapter 9

The inside of the Chinese restaurant is warm, with savoury smells hanging thickly in the air and making John’s mouth water. His meal at Angelo’s feels like days ago rather than mere hours, and when Sherlock orders a truly staggering amount of food John only nods and adds a request for an extra portion of steamed dumplings.

Their waiter nods and smiles and disappears, and it’s only at that point that John realises they’re the only ones in the place.

‘D’you think we should get it to go?’ he asks awkwardly, aware that it’s long past usual closing time and they’re keeping these people from their homes and beds.

But Sherlock shakes his head. ‘I helped their father out of a spot of bother last year, they won’t mind.’ He shakes the wooden chopsticks out of their paper wrapper, cracks them apart, and half-moans, ‘and besides, I don’t want to wait, I’m _starving_.’

The speed with which their smiling waiter return to their table – bearing a basket of crackers, and a plate of chicken skewers – seems to back up the first part of Sherlock’s statement, and the speed with which Sherlock falls on the food, the second.

John watches him – a man of monochrome, his pale skin and black hair startlingly out of place against the warm red interior of the restaurant – until Sherlock looks up and catches him. John transfers his gaze to the line of red and gold dragons dancing their way across the wall behind him, but he’s not fast enough and Sherlock frowns at him, and mumbles ‘What?’ around a mouthful of chicken.

John shrugs, takes a drink from his bottle of beer, the glass cold and slick with condensation under his fingertips.

‘Just wondering if I’m going to get a look-in on any of that,’ he says, in lieu of what he really wants to say, and Sherlock’s frown doesn’t disappear but he swallows and says, ‘Only if you get in here quick.’

It’s probably as close as Sherlock, in his current state, is going to come to a gracious ‘Help yourself,’ and John quickly filches the last chicken skewer out from under Sherlock’s fingers, grinning when Sherlock glowers at him.

Sherlock picks up the chopsticks, fiddling with them and nibbling distractedly at the end of one as he gazes toward the kitchen, and John takes pity on him.

‘Have a cracker,’ he says, pushing the basket toward Sherlock. ‘And take your coat off.’

Sherlock looks down at himself, seeming almost startled to find himself still wearing it, but he squirms out of it and by the time he’s laid it in the empty space next to him in their booth – careful as a mother with her child and John smothers a grin: it would seem that Sherlock is just the tiniest bit vain about that coat – their waiter is setting down steaming bamboo baskets of pork and chive dumplings.

After the dumplings it’s bowls of rice and dishes of beef and chicken and fish, each one rich and delicious and John eats with an appetite he hasn’t had in _months_ , not since he returned to this grey, dismal country.

Sherlock matches him easily, and John watches the colour return to Sherlock’s face as they eat until they’re both stuffed, and then John sits back with a sigh.

‘Wow,’ he says. ‘That was delicious.’

‘Mmm.’ Sherlock’s hunger has finally been sated: he chases a piece of water chestnut around his bowl with his chopsticks, pops it in his mouth, and sets his chopsticks down before leaning back against the booth. His cheeks are slightly flushed, although John can’t decide whether that’s due to the warmth of the restaurant, the food, or the single beer he’s had with the meal.

He looks different like this: loose and unguarded and more approachable than he’s been since they met again. John has so much he wants to ask Sherlock, but clearly he needs to tread carefully. Excitement made him rush in, earlier, but now he knows better, and so he toys with the edge of the tablecloth, noting distantly that his hand is perfectly steady, before lifting his gaze to Sherlock’s.

‘So,’ he says quietly.

Sherlock says nothing, merely looks at him from those inscrutable cat’s eyes.

John takes a breath, but chickens out at the last minute. ‘I never realised your brother was so high up in the government.’

A smirk tugs at one corner of Sherlock’s mouth. ‘Few do. And that’s precisely how he likes it. Governments come and go, but Mycroft... remains.’

‘From how you described him, I always pictured him as a larger man,’ John says, thinking of the slim figure in a suit that cost more than John’s monthly pension, and a patrician expression of disdain.

For some reason this makes Sherlock laugh briefly. ‘He used to be. Not any more.’

But the very tone of this conversation has answered a question that’s been nagging at John all day. He asks it anyway.

‘So you... you do remember... us? Me?’

Sherlock blinks, all traces of laughter fading from his face. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Right.’ John is oddly relieved: at least that golden summer with a younger Sherlock doesn’t exist only in his head. ‘You didn’t... mmm... you didn’t seem like you did so I wasn’t. You know. Sure.’

Sherlock looks down at his beer bottle, fussing with it until it’s at three o’clock precisely from his bowl.

‘Is it important?’ he asks coolly. ‘I didn’t think it was relevant.’

‘Oh.’ Inwardly John reels, his ego bruised. ‘I... well, no, not that important, I suppose.’

‘It was a long time ago, after all.’

‘Yes,’ John says, through numb lips, trying to match Sherlock’s disinterest. ‘A very long time ago.’

Certainly, as far as John is concerned, it feels like another, more innocent, lifetime ago.

‘And we were barely more than teenagers. Just a bit of a summer flirtation.’

‘Yes,’ John repeats.

John remembers them as young men, in fact, and desperately in love, but he looks at the faint dusting of Sherlock’s five o’clock shadow and the lines of weariness around his mouth. They’re neither of them young men any more; perhaps John is attaching too much importance to something that happened long ago.

Unbidden, a new and terrible though occurs to him: he’s well aware that he’s not the man he once was, either mentally or physically. Could Sherlock be worried that John is assuming they’re automatically going to pick up where they left off? Perhaps that was the real reason behind his rebuttal in Angelo’s, and the Chinese food in John’s stomach seems to cool and congeal.

Well, Sherlock has nothing to fear there, John has far too much pride to trail after someone who finds him repellent, and he smiles tightly at Sherlock.

‘Will that...’ Sherlock glances at him and looks away, uncertainty just barely visible in the pluck of his fingers at the table edge, ‘will that be a problem?’

‘No,’ John shakes his head at once. ‘No, not a problem, I just... no.’

What is it about Sherlock as he is now that makes John incapable of using one word rather than babbling seven or eight?

John blows out a breath. ‘So you still want to...’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock picks up a chopstick, fidgeting and twirling it through his long fingers, and for the first time John really _sees_ that Sherlock is an ex-smoker, in a way he hadn’t when he was peeling three nicotine patches off Sherlock’s arm. ‘That is, if you’re still alright to–’

‘Yep.’ John nods, licks his lower lip. ‘Yes, that’s fine. The lease on my current place actually expires in a couple of weeks, so...’

‘Of course,’ Sherlock says, polite as though he’s having tea with the vicar. ‘Although the room is only going to be standing empty, so if you wanted to bring some of your things over earlier...’

‘Great,’ John says, trying hard for nonchalant but already thinking about packing when he gets home. He’s never liked that bedsit.

‘Okay then.’

John glances sideways at Sherlock to find Sherlock doing the same to him. He smiles, tentatively, and sees it echoed on Sherlock’s face, and when Sherlock breaks into a proper smile John laughs a little for no reason at all, save the feeling that – for the first time in far too long and despite Sherlock’s dismissal of their previous relationship – he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

\----------

A few days later, John brings over some of his things: he doesn’t want to look too eager, but the truth is that it’s been a struggle even to make himself wait that long. But the moment he walks in the door Sherlock flicks him a glance from under his eyelashes, taking in the holdall at John’s side, that seems to say he knows all about John’s internal debate.

Although perhaps that’s just John’s imagination, since he’s acutely aware of how much his recent train of thought resembles a teenager with a crush.

John swallows and hopes that his pounding heart and sweaty palms aren’t discernible from across the room – where Sherlock sits quietly with his laptop and notebook, perfectly groomed and composed – but Sherlock only tilts his head to the stairs and says, cool but not unfriendly, ‘The upstairs bed is already made up. And the kettle’s just boiled if you want tea.’

And John grins in relief, shrugs off his jacket, and claims a peg on the rack by the door. He still has to make the tea himself, though; Sherlock’s welcome isn’t _that_ effusive.

Slowly, over the next few weeks, they settle in together. John spends some of his nights at his current bedsit, keeping up the pretence of not being over-eager. Technically he’s obliged to give four weeks’ notice to the landlord and he’s done this – hell, he emailed the bloke that first night after he got home from the Chinese meal with Sherlock. He can’t really afford to cut his losses and move out straight away, however much he wants to (and _God_ , he wants to) so he stays put until Sherlock calls him at eleven o’clock one evening to ask about signs of cyanosis.

John very carefully doesn’t point out the wealth of information on the internet but instead answers Sherlock’s questions, and when Sherlock exclaims impatiently, ‘You should just move in _now_ ; this would be so much easier to demonstrate if you were actually here,’ then John chews his lip to keep his grin from being audible.

‘Yeah, alright,’ he says carelessly. ‘Could do, I suppose.’

Sherlock huffs. ‘Oh, get on with it. You don’t even _like_ your flat anyway.’

This isn’t something John has shared with Sherlock, and he tries to protest: ‘I don’t not like it, it’s fine. I just–’

‘Oh please. The light above the mirror in your bathroom has been broken for over a week now and you’ve not bothered to replace the bulb; you can’t be _that_ fond of it.’

John’s mouth falls open. It’s perfectly true, of course, but he’d not mentioned that – or in fact anything about his place whatsoever – to Sherlock. As far as Sherlock knows, John could just vanish into the ether every time he leaves the flat.

‘How,’ he begins, baffled, ‘how on earth, could you possibly know about–’

‘ _John_.’ Sherlock’s voice is impatient, but John knows that he won’t be able to resist showing off. ‘What else can one think when a military man, whose grooming was impeccable at first acquaintance, suddenly begins to appear in public with one side of his face markedly more well-shaven that the other?’

John’s hand flies to his face, fingers rubbing along his jaw, even as he decides to overlook the ‘first acquaintance’ remark. Somehow he doesn’t think Sherlock is talking about what John looks like when they bumped into each other in the students’ union all those years ago, in fact he’d be astonished if Sherlock even remembers how they met. It certainly doesn’t seem like a memory he would have bothered preserving.

‘I don’t–’ he falters, and Sherlock interrupts.

‘Clearly the light source in your bathroom has changed from being one in front of you that gives an even view of your face to one set off to your left. Your shaving gets progressively worse the farther round to the right you go; I cannot imagine you looking at yourself in an even light ad being satisfied with the result.’

John can’t help himself: he laughs aloud in delight.

‘Marvellous,’ he says. ‘You’re right, the bulb went a week ago and I’ve not replaced it yet. That’s bloody amazing.’

‘Simple, a mere child’s play,’ Sherlock retorts waspishly, but he sounds pleased underneath it all and John grins.

‘I’ll bring the rest of my stuff over tomorrow, then,’ he says, and that seems to be that.

For all that passed between them, all those years ago, they never actually lived together. However long Sherlock stayed in London he always used to live out of his rucksack, and on the few occasions John went to Cambridge he took no more than a change of clothes and his toothbrush. Consequently this is a new experience for John, and one by which he can’t help but be charmed.

There are habits of Sherlock’s that John has never seen before – one of the less appealing being dissection instruments that find their way into the butter dish, among other places – and then others trigger a flash of recollection so strong it’s almost tangible, like the sight of Sherlock’s bare toes curling in pleasure at the first sip of his morning coffee.

John finds that Sherlock has a fondness for dressing gowns, something that he never discovered during that golden summer together. Sherlock has several, including a blue silky one that makes John’s fingers itch to touch, a dark tartan one, and a sort of beige-grey one that John decides reminds him of a fieldmouse’s fur. This last seems to be Sherlock’s favourite, and John grows used to the sight of Sherlock poking sleepily at the kettle in the mornings, his mouse-coloured dressing gown belted tightly around his slim waist and his bare feet pale against the lino.

Strictly speaking, this cohabitation is a new experience for both of them, and John wonders if Sherlock is having the same sense of discovery and turmoil as he adjusts to his new life because from the outside Sherlock gives nothing away, and John wonders when he learned to master his poker face so well. Sherlock is distantly friendly with him, treating him no differently to any other new acquaintance, but that’s just the problem, because _Sherlock treats him no differently to any other new acquaintance_. Sherlock never indicates in his actions that he has any more knowledge of John than what he’s gleaned in these last few weeks and he never, _ever_ , mentions anything from Before.

(‘Before’ is how John thinks of it, before he went away to war and Sherlock started on whatever downward path that led to several years of his life that he won’t talk about, to the Met sweeping his flat for drugs, and the shadows in his eyes that surface in his more pensive, unguarded moments.)

They grow closer by inches. There are cases, of course, and they’re thrilling, dazzling things, not only chasing down killers but also just watching Sherlock’s mind work and following his brilliant leaps of logic that leave John giddy and breathless, as though he’s just run across half of London.

And in between the cases there are conversations, and shared meals, and quiet rainy days in the flat doing nothing very much at all, each absorbed in his own tasks but enjoying the other’s company all the same.

(At least John assumes Sherlock is enjoying it. He never actually says, but John will sometimes catch him smiling to himself, and Sherlock certainly isn’t shy about indicating _dis_ pleasure with something.)

John learns that Sherlock’s knowledge of popular culture hasn’t improved; if anything it’s declined – John has spent the last ten years stationed in various remote places but even _he_ knows who Harry Potter is, for goodness’ sake. But Sherlock is quick to bristle at any incredulity on John’s part, even gentle teasing, and John soon learns not to poke at Sherlock’s ignorance. Besides, Sherlock may not be able to name the Prime Minister or know that the earth goes around the sun, but he has the details of a thousand cases at his finger ends. For a few of Lestrade’s calls he’s even refused to leave the flat, instead Sherlock has merely listened before telling Lestrade to cross-check the details against this or that case: Basel, in 1841, or Lisbon in the summer of 1936, or the Coldharbour Lane killings in Camberwell in 1997.

It’s breathtaking to watch Sherlock pull details out of the air so easily and wrap things up so smoothly, with never a mistake nor a misstep, and John becomes lulled and complacent with it, so much so that when Sherlock gets injured John’s initial, instinctive reaction isn’t alarm or concern but merely astonishment.

Sherlock seems astonished too: for a long moment he simply stands there, one hand clutched to his shoulder and his mouth open in shock, while his attacker – Mr Hamilton’s accomplice, whose presence Sherlock had entirely failed to deduce – hares off down the street after his wild swing at Sherlock. John tenses, debates chasing him, but Sherlock still hasn’t moved from his spot and instead John looks at him.

‘Sherlock?’ he prompts, watching Sherlock blink, slow and heavy.

Sherlock looks over at him, and it’s as though the movement recalls him to himself. Slowly, he unclamps his hand from his shoulder and the sight of his palm – smeared bright red – jolts John into action.

‘Shit,’ he says, immediately moving to Sherlock’s side. ‘Shit, let me see, what is it–’

‘I’m fine,’ Sherlock says, trying to fend John off, but John refuses to be fended.

‘Yeah, of course you are,’ he retorts, ‘because having blood gushing from your shoulder is never anything to worry about at all.’

When he manages to get Sherlock’s coat off and has a proper look, he’s relieved. More of a slash than a stab, and Sherlock’s thick coat caught the worst of it; reasoning that the coat is ruined anyway John wads up one of the thick woollen sleeves and presses it against Sherlock’s bloody shoulder but Sherlock resists and tugs it away from him.

‘I _like_ this coat.’

‘You can get a new one,’ John argues, tugging it back.

‘They don’t make them anymore,’ Sherlock counters pettishly, and God help him, John must be going soft in the head because he rolls his eyes but relents.

‘It’s London,’ he says, quickly shrugging off his own jacket and shirt to wad his shirt up and press it against Sherlock’s shoulder. The gash must be painful, but Sherlock hasn’t flinched or made a sound, and he really does look more upset about the coat than the sluggishly bleeding cut. ‘There’ll surely be someone who can mend it for you.’

John’s glad of his plain white T-shirt under his shirt; now really isn’t the moment to see Sherlock’s face when confronted with the mess of tissue on his left shoulder that’s still an angry, shiny red and pulls at the smooth skin around it.

Sherlock seems to perk up a little at this. ‘True. I do know a tailor, and he owes me a favour.’

Despite his concern, John hides a grin. It seems that half of London owes Sherlock a favour. ‘Got him off a murder charge, did you?’

Sherlock laughs, shaky and a bit breathless from shock – ‘Actually I programmed his video recorder’ – and John snorts in amusement.

But not for long though, because Sherlock has finally started to grimace and flinch away from John’s pressure pad, and John guesses the pain is beginning to make itself felt.

‘Come on, we should get you to hospital,’ he says, just as Sherlock says, ‘Let’s go home.’

John stops and stares; he almost starts to laugh but stops quickly at the look on Sherlock’s face.

‘You’re not going home,’ John says. ‘Not a chance in hell; that needs to be cleaned and stitched, and you probably need a tetanus jab.’

‘It’s fine,’ Sherlock says mulishly, ‘I have bandages at home and I did it myself for the last one.’

The casual reference is utterly disconcerting and when John has time to think on it later he’s surely going to be horrified, but here and now...

‘Sherlock, as your doctor there is no way I can let you go off and do that yourself, it’s–’

‘Is there a problem with your hearing, _Doctor_? I’m sure I spoke clearly when I said that I’m not–’

‘–dirty, God knows what was on that blade, and you can’t–’

‘You do it,’ Sherlock says suddenly, and John is pulled up short.

‘What?’

‘You do it then, if you’re so bloody insistent,’ Sherlock snarls, pain unravelling his temper.

He’s gone rather pale, and John desperately wants to get him somewhere quiet and warm to sit down, Sherlock is the only man he knows who would be stubborn enough to argue about this in a cold, dark alley with the injury paining him.

At this hour on a Saturday night, A&E will be full of drunks who’ve managed to injure themselves in various stupid ways. It will be crowded, and loud, and full of idiots: Sherlock’s idea of hell, in other words. And because Sherlock’s shoulder is only bleeding in a slow, sticky ooze and his colour is good then they’ll likely have to wait to be treated.

‘I have a fully stocked first aid kit at home,’ Sherlock says, quiet now, ‘and I’m up to date with my tetanus.’

That’s surely true, John thinks, given how often he’s seen Sherlock pawing through bins and, occasionally, skips for that vital piece of missing evidence.

‘Alright then,’ John sighs, and has a guilty thrill of pleasure at how Sherlock’s face lightens immediately at his acquiescence. ‘But you’d better not be exaggerating about that first aid kit or we’re going straight back to A&E.’

Sherlock isn’t.

When John gets it open, with Sherlock perched carefully on the edge of one of their kitchen chairs, he’s relieved to see everything he needs: antiseptic, sterilised needles, gloves, sutures, even some lidocaine, and God knows how Sherlock got hold of _that_.But now isn’t the time to ask, and John cleans and washes his hands and tries to pretend that this is just another routine procedure stitching someone up. This is basic stuff, he could do this in his sleep at this point, save for the fact that this isn’t just anyone, it’s _Sherlock_. Who John feels many complicated thing for, none of which could be described as indifferent or routine.

‘Right then,’ John says, turning to Sherlock, who’s starting to look a bit pale around the lips. ‘Let me give you a couple of shots of this,’ he picks up the lidocaine, ‘and then we can give it some time to kick in.’

A tight nod is John’s only answer, and he approaches Sherlock and gently touches the hand that’s clamping John’s (now-ruined) shirt to Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘Come on, let me see.’

Slowly, Sherlock allows John to take his wrist and ease it away from his shoulder. The blood flow has stopped, more or less; the fabric is tacky but not stuck to the skin, and John is thankful he caught it in time.

‘This is going to sting a bit,’ he warns Sherlock, upending the vial and piercing the rubber stopper to draw some up into the syringe, ‘but once it takes effect you’re going to feel a whole lot better.’

‘Fine.’ Sherlock closes his eyes and turns his face away.

It’s his only word since their argument in the alley, and John listens to his tone of voice and resolves to make this as quick as possible.

‘I’d rather you were steady,’ Sherlock says, out of nowhere, startling John.

‘Excuse me?’ John blinks.

‘You were looking at your watch and then estimating how many sutures it would take. Don’t be fast, be _good_.’

‘Sherlock.’ Traces of gentleness creep in around the edges of John’s tone, no matter how hard he tries to stay professional. ‘Army surgeon. I’m fast _and_ good.’

_You’re in safe hands_ , John wants to say, but he bites his tongue and reaches for the remaining couple of buttons of Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock lifts his hands to help, but the motion must pull at the edges of the wound because he drops them almost immediately with a little hiss.

‘Don’t,’ John says quickly, ‘don’t, it’s fine, let me.’

It’s a bit awkward but John manages to use his forearm to hold Sherlock’s shirt out of the way without contaminating his scrubbed hands while he briefly cleans the injection site and then administers the local. It must sting like fury but Sherlock doesn’t flinch, and John is as quick as he can be.

‘I’ll just give that some time to kick in,’ John says, stepping away and glancing at his watch.

‘Mmm.’ The compression of Sherlock’s lips looks to be easing already as the anaesthetic takes hold, and John nods to himself and goes to fetch the angle-poise lamp from their sitting room table.

Properly set up on the kitchen table it provides perfect illumination, however John runs into another problem. With Sherlock’s arm still in the sleeve of his shirt, it has a tendency to slip upward and cover the wound site, undoing all of John’s careful work cleaning it and making it impossible to work on it.

‘Your shirt,’ John says at last, after trying unsuccessfully to arrange it in a way that will allow him access without slipping back up to contaminate the injury. ‘I can’t... um, you need to take it off, this isn’t going to work otherwise.’

The tick of the clock is awfully loud while Sherlock looks at him, pale eyes skimming John’s face, and John holds Sherlock’s gaze and tries not to fidget, or swallow, or worst of all glance at the pale section of chest and stomach currently on show between the loosened halves of Sherlock’s shirt.

Whatever else they may once have been to each other, Sherlock is currently John’s _patient_ , he’s vulnerable – even if Sherlock himself doesn’t think he is – and John is in a position of _trust_ , and this is an entirely inappropriate time to be entertaining even vague memories of helping him out of his shirt in any other capacity whatsoever–

Finally Sherlock grunts his assent and starts tugging at his cuffs, and at once John is there.

‘Try not to move,’ he says, ‘here, let me.’

Gently, as though sufficient care can undo what’s done, John eases it off Sherlock’s shoulders and each sleeve down his arms, forcing himself to be resolute and clinical, to focus only on the red gash in Sherlock’s skin and not his sparse scattering of chest hair or the lean, compact muscle of his torso.

‘Hang on,’ John says, once Sherlock is sitting bare-chested in front of him. ‘Don’t move, be back in a sec.’

On the corner table near the bookcase is a decanter (the first time John saw it he had only barely refrained from rolling his eyes because of _course_ Sherlock owned a decanter. Crystal, even). John picks up a glass and pours a generous two fingers’-worth of brandy into it, brings it back into the kitchen, and holds it out to Sherlock.

‘Brandy?’ Sherlock’s eyebrows lift but he takes it nonetheless. ‘Really? Terribly bad for shock, you know.’

‘I know.’ The anaesthetic is obviously doing its work then, if Sherlock feels up to criticising John’s actions. ‘But, speaking as your doctor, I’m telling you you’re not in shock.’ John crosses to the sink to wash his hands once more. ‘What you have – or I should say have had – is a bloody awful evening that’s ended with a ruined shirt and stitches. And if I were you, I’d feel entitled to a stiff drink.’ 

‘Hmm.’

Behind him, John hears Sherlock taking a drink of brandy and then sighing. When he turns around John sees that – freed from the nagging pain of his injury, and possibly helped along by the brandy and the knowledge that he’s sitting shirtless in front of John – he’s regained a bit of colour in his face, with the tops of his cheeks flushed a betraying pink.

‘Let me sterilise this, and then we’ll get started,’ John says gruffly, carefully not letting his gaze dip below Sherlock’s face as he quickly swabs down the table and lays out the instruments he’ll need.

The gash is in a difficult place to clean, and as John irrigates it he has to press a clean towel against Sherlock’s torso to soak up the saline as it sluices down his skin. Thank goodness for the local anaesthetic; Sherlock doesn’t so much as twitch when John switches to alcohol, and John cleans it until he’s satisfied, until the blood has started sluggishly to flow once more.

‘Right,’ he says, turning away to pick up a pre-threaded suture. ‘Let’s get this done.’

He turns back to Sherlock, one hand out ready to pinch the sides of the cut together ready for stitching, but when his eyes fall on the crook of Sherlock’s left elbow he freezes.

On multiple occasions Sherlock has rolled his sleeves up almost to his elbows, but usually John is too captivated by watching Sherlock’s graceful hands, his expansive gestures as he talks. It’s only now, with Sherlock sitting quiet and exposed beneath the glare of the lamp, that John sees what he’s never been permitted to notice before: faint marks in the crook of Sherlock’s elbow. Faded and hardly visible, they nonetheless speak volumes and John doesn’t realise he’s reached out for Sherlock’s arm until it twitches away from him.

He lifts his eyes to Sherlock’s face to find Sherlock frowning at him, his wrist rotating to turn the soft, pale inside of his arm away from John.

‘Seen enough?’ he asks tartly.

‘No,’ John says automatically, and kicks himself. ‘I mean yes. I mean... hell.’

John blows out a breath. He knows this, of course he knew this, they’d barely been reacquainted for three hours before John discovered this fact about him. So why does he feel so shocked, so disappointed?

‘Sorry,’ he mutters. ‘I didn’t mean to look. I just... you know.’

Sherlock acknowledges this with a brief dip of his chin and – after a heavy, ringing silence – he asks pointedly, ‘D’ you think we could get on?’

John supposes he deserves that and so, with no further comment, he bends to his task.

It would certainly explain why Sherlock didn’t want to go to A&E. Someone with his medical history, turning up looking as simultaneously exhausted and wired as Sherlock typically looks at this stage in a case and with this sort of an injury too... John can imagine the sort of questions Sherlock would be asked, and even after just a few months he can already imagine how very distasteful and intrusive Sherlock would find them, reserved and private as he is.

Head bent over his task, John ventures no further comment and Sherlock stays so perfectly motionless that John might as well be working on the anatomical model he was trying to envisage earlier, and in a very short time John has tied off the last suture and is smoothing the tape down on a dressing.

‘You need to take it easy for the next couple of weeks,’ he warns Sherlock. ‘If you tear them then they’ll be a bloody mess to re-stitch, you know that.’

Sherlock nods tersely, setting his empty glass aside, his fingers leaving faint red prints on it. John doesn’t expect any more gratitude than that but, once Sherlock has stood and gathered up his ruined shirt, he pauses in the kitchen doorway.

‘Thank you,’ he says, stiff and formal, and John looks up in surprise from where he’s clearing away the used instruments and swabs.

‘You’re welcome,’ he responds automatically. And then, as Sherlock turns away, ‘Sherlock.’

Sherlock stops, glancing back at him, and for a moment John is struck speechless. Sherlock looks impossibly aloof and remote, his spine proud and his chin held high as a king’s despite his bare torso and the rusty smears of dried blood on his skin.

‘Sorry,’ John offers, the memory still fresh of Sherlock’s arm twitching away from him, Sherlock’s acid tone as John stared. John couldn’t say, if pressed, precisely what he’s apologising for; it’s vague and shapeless, like so many of the things that sit unsaid between them, and Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he stares at John.

It goes on just long enough that John starts to feel like the one who’s exposed, despite Sherlock’s undress, but eventually Sherlock inclines his head slightly in a stiff sort of acceptance, and leaves without another word.


	10. Chapter 10

The next morning is difficult.

Sherlock is in pain, which doesn’t help his temper, and nor does the fact that Lestrade tracked down the remaining few members of the gang and made his arrests in the early hours of the morning. Privately John is pleased: Sherlock has no reason now to be drawn out of the house but can stay put. Sherlock is ostensibly annoyed with Lestrade for, as he puts it, ‘making him miss all the fun’ but not nearly as annoyed as John would have thought; John suspects that, _very_ deep down, Sherlock may be relieved that he’s not required to run around but of course Sherlock would sooner die than admit it.

Pain doesn’t improve Sherlock’s disposition, though, and John settles him on the sofa with as many painkillers as he dares, and makes him tea, and passes him his laptop, and suggests a DVD, until Sherlock growls at John to _stop fussing_ , whereupon John forces himself to back off and sit down in his own chair with the paper.

He’s not slept too well himself: it had been the small hours of the morning before they’d gone to bed and John had tossed and turned – his mind too full for sleep – for some time before he dropped off, and then his Army training had kicked in and woken him shortly after six. He had tried vaguely to go back to sleep before giving it up as a bad job and coming downstairs to make tea and sit in the early morning silence, thinking about Sherlock asleep in the next room.

How different might things have been if John had never met Sherlock again when he came back to London, whether because their paths never crossed or because Sherlock’s path had come to a dead end before John could meet him again. This explains so much about Mycroft’s protectiveness; ridiculous Bond villain kidnappings aside, John sees clearly now that it’s an older brother’s worry and desire to look after a younger. And John certainly knows _that_ feeling: he may be a few years younger than Harry but, in many of the ways that count, he’s far older.

John never met Mycroft while he and Sherlock were together before, so he can only assume that something happened in the intervening time to trigger it. And, after last night, John is certain he knows what that something was. How far had Sherlock gone in his downward spiral before Mycroft stepped in? And how many attempts had Sherlock needed? Getting clean is one of the hardest things in the world to do; John has watched Harry try and fail enough times to know. It’s useless to think it now, when it’s all done and past, but John wishes desperately that he’d been able to be there for Sherlock at the time.

Now Sherlock clatters away on his laptop while John stares at his newspaper, but the neat black columns of newsprint blur in front of his eyes. He turns a page aimlessly, trying afresh, but all he can see is Sherlock’s arm, pale and vulnerable in the lamplight, and he blinks and shakes his head and takes a mouthful of tea. He’s so absorbed – certainly not in the news article but in his own thoughts – that Sherlock’s growl startles him.

‘ _Shush_.’

John raises his head to look over at where Sherlock is glaring at him from the sofa.

‘I didn’t say anything,’ he protests.

‘You’re thinking,’ Sherlock says disgustedly. ‘It’s annoying.’

‘No I’m not, I’m reading the paper.’ John flourishes it as slightly redundant proof. ‘Look.’

‘Oh please.’ It seems to pain Sherlock to even dignify this with a response, but he apparently can’t resist. ‘You’re no more reading that thing than I am dancing a jig.’ His hands flutter in the air in sarcastic parody of a dance; the thought occurs to John – not for the first time – that if he were to tie Sherlock’s wrists together then he’d quite possibly be rendered mute.

‘Or are you really telling me that you’re that interested in who’s sleeping with who?’ Sherlock finishes bitingly, and John looks down to see that he has indeed turned to the social pages, full of exactly the sort of trivia that Sherlock prides himself upon not knowing.

‘Yeah, alright.’ John clears his throat. ‘I’ve just... got a lot on my mind.’

Sherlock sighs. ‘I _know_. You’ve one of the loudest silences I ever heard. It’s distracting.’

‘I... look.’

John takes a deep breath, and reminds himself that even a sharp flick to his patient’s ear would still violate his Hippocratic oath. ‘I didn’t sleep well.’

‘I can tell.’ Sherlock huffs. ‘It’s made you _dull_.’

‘Right.’ Nettled, John closes the paper and sets it aside. Clearly the painkillers are starting to wear off but Sherlock isn’t allowed more for at least an hour; there’ll be no peace here until then, and John takes his mug through to the kitchen as he makes his decision. ‘I’m off out.’

‘What? Where?’ But then Sherlock sniffs, covering his surprise quickly. ‘Just as you please, then.’

John pokes his head out from the kitchen just too late to catch Sherlock’s expression. ‘Just for an hour or so.’

‘Fine.’ Sherlock, to all appearances, couldn’t give a damn about John’s movements, but John refuses to be discouraged. He knows what it is to be laid up, in pain, unable to find a comfortable position for a body that feels irrationally like it’s betrayed him, and his temper fraying. By God, he does.

‘I’ll pick up a copy of the Times when I’m out, and when I get back I’ll time you on the crossword.’

‘Oh _please_.’

‘And just to make it interesting, I won’t tell you any of the intersecting letters.’

‘Well I suppose I can hardly avoid it, under the circumstances,’ Sherlock says, not looking up and supposedly absorbed in his laptop, but John caught the sharp flare of interest across his face and bites the inside of his cheek to quell an affectionate smile.

‘Great. But before I go, I need to have a look at your stitches.’

_This_ makes Sherlock look up, his mouth pursing in annoyance. ‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s unnecessary.’

‘Last time I checked there was only one person living in this flat with a medical degree, ta. Let’s see them.’

‘You won’t be content with _looking_ ,’ Sherlock complains, but at least he’s stopped typing. ‘You never are. You’ll want to _poke_.’

‘Then sit up and let me poke at them,’ John says, unmoved. ‘Come on.’

Infection can progress with frightening speed, once it takes hold, and for these first few days John is going to be watching like a hawk to ensure it’s healing cleanly. He stares at Sherlock pointedly, projecting his Captain Watson persona as much as he can and hoping Sherlock isn’t going to fight him on this, and at last Sherlock hands over his laptop with ill grace.

It’s difficult, as Sherlock refuses to get off the sofa, but John scrubs up and wedges himself on the cushions as best he can and delicately picks at the surgical tape on Sherlock’s skin until he can peel back the dressing. Beneath it the cut is flushed, the black stitches stark against the pink and cream of Sherlock’s skin, but it’s not the angry red of infection and John exhales a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

‘That’s good,’ he says gently, discarding the soiled dressing and quickly preparing a fresh one. ‘Looks perfect. Here, just hold this out of the way for a moment, nearly done.’

With a new dressing in place, the last of Sherlock’s patience evaporates and he disdains John’s attempt to help him back on with his pyjama top. Instead he pointedly rolls onto his side to present John with his back as John stands and peels off his gloves, but it doesn’t escape John’s notice that Sherlock moves gingerly, careful not to put any weight on his bad shoulder.

‘I won’t be long,’ John says, bundling together gloves and the old dressing to drop in the kitchen’s designated biohazard waste bin.

Now that he’s declared his intention of going out he finds himself oddly reluctant to leave Sherlock, however Sherlock glances over his shoulder and eyes John venomously. He must see something of John’s hesitation in John’s face, for he opens his mouth and John forestalls the biting remark he can see coming with a hasty, ‘Alright, yes, going now, okay. Text me if you need anything while I’m out.’

There’s only so much care and attention that John can pass off as a medical professional’s duty of care to his patient before he starts to cross the line into something more, something horrifically inappropriate in the circumstances, and John shoves his fists into his jacket pockets and starts in the direction of Regent’s Park.

For the thousandth time, he repeats to himself that what he and Sherlock had was a long time ago; they were different men back then, in different lives. It would be arrogant in the extreme to assume that Sherlock might want to take up with him again, even if John thinks that Sherlock has only improved with age, and John is careful to squash any such hopes before they can root and start to grow.

Walking doesn’t clear his head. If anything he finds his thoughts circling ever more tightly around Sherlock: his drug habit, those lost years of which John has no knowledge and daren’t ask. Realistically there’s only one man in London – in the world, in fact – who could even begin to answer John’s questions, and the longer John spends walking aimlessly, the less he can ignore the fact that if he wants information he’s going to have to ask for it.

There’s a contact in his phone that simply says ‘MH’. John first noticed it a few weeks ago – the number of contacts in his phone is so pitifully small that any new addition is immediately apparent. God knows how it got there: John knows that he didn’t enter it, and on the couple of occasions Mycroft has dropped by their flat then John could have sworn he’d barely got close enough to shake hands much less lightfinger John’s phone out of his pocket to add his number. But then this is _Mycroft Holmes_ – the only man in the world who manages to be always one stop ahead of Sherlock (not that Sherlock would ever admit as much) and who taught his little brother everything he knows about pickpocketing – and John swallows his pride and sends a brief text: _Do you have time to talk?_

After it’s sent John stares at his phone expectantly, before rolling his eyes at himself. As though the British government has time to drop everything and call John up for a chat at such short notice, and John carries on walking until his phone buzzes.

It’s a call from – naturally – a blocked number, and John hits the button to accept the call. ‘Hello?’

‘Doctor Watson.’

‘Oh, John, please,’ John says awkwardly.

His acquaintance with Mycroft is a tenuous and uneasy thing. John would respect him, even like him – John has been a soldier, after all, he can understand the pull of ‘Queen and country’ better than most – but for the faint air of disdain Mycroft exudes whenever he’s forced to leave the hushed, hallowed halls of government and speak with mere mortals. Sherlock dislikes him intensely but John pays no mind to that: if he were forced to decline contact with everyone Sherlock found annoying then he’d scarcely speak to anyone in London.

‘John, then.’ There’s a pause and John can almost hear Mycroft checking his emails, holding the threads of the nation securely in his palm. ‘How can I help you?’

Now that John has him, he doesn’t know how to broach the subject with him. ‘Look, thanks for calling me back so quickly. I appreciate it, you must be very busy.’

‘I am,’ Mycroft says pointedly.

‘Yes,’ John says. ‘Yes, right.’

Another pause, and while John gathers his thoughts Mycroft says, with an increasing curl of irritation in his tone: ‘Much as I enjoy such sparkling repartee, _John_ , I’ve postponed a meeting with the Icelandic fisheries minister – already a deeply unhappy man – for this, and so did you call _just_ to enquire as to my workload, or was there any more pressing–’

‘No,’ John interrupts, goaded into speech at last. He straightens his spine and reminds himself that he’s Captain John Watson, veteran of Kandahar and Helmand, and puts a bit of snap in his voice. ‘I’m calling because I need you to tell me about your brother’s drug habit. As... as his doctor.’

‘Ah.’ _Now_ John has Mycroft’s full attention, he’s sure of it. ‘As his doctor?’

John hesitates, then adds, ‘And also as his friend.’

Some distance away a group of children are playing with a football, a rough sort of kickabout that involves more shouting and laughing than actual goal-scoring; their laughter is a strange counterpoint to the dark times in Sherlock’s past that John is trying to uncover.

‘You don’t call it his former drug habit,’ Mycroft observes, and John sighs.

‘People don’t stop being addicts,’ he says. ‘They just stop being addicts who use.’

‘Hmm.’ There’s a faint rustle as Mycroft changes position. ‘How _is_ my dear brother, by the way?’

‘Oh. He’s, um...’ John has a pang of guilt, despite Sherlock’s injury having been unforeseeable and impossible to prevent. Goodness knows what Mycroft is going to say when he hears what’s happened to his baby brother. ‘He’s... been hurt, actually, but it’s nothing serious, just–’

‘I know _that_ ,’ Mycroft sighs, with a weary air implying John is the stupidest person alive. ‘I was referring to his mood. I assume he’s in fine temper this morning?’

John doesn’t bother to ask how he knows. More importantly...

‘You were expecting this call,’ he accuses Mycroft. ‘If you know what happened to him then you must know what happened after and what I... saw.’

‘You flatter me, Doctor Watson, but my surveillance network has not yet expanded to include the interior of your flat. But I suppose it’s fair to say that I’ve anticipated this conversation more or less since the day your paths crossed again.’

This oblique reference to their history gives John the faintest of hints as to what his next question should be.

‘His second year at university,’ John begins haltingly, the nearest he can bring himself to saying _after I left_. ‘How was he?’

‘Bored,’ Mycroft says unhesitatingly. ‘His particular brand of intelligence was singularly ill-suited to the rather regimented structure and narrow focus of his degree; I spoke with his tutors but there are limits to the arrangements that can be made even for someone of such exceptional intelligence as my brother.’

John nods. He knew this already, from Sherlock’s letters of that time that he’s never been able to bring himself to throw away.

‘What happened?’ he asks, half-dreading the answer.

‘He declined,’ Mycroft says crisply. ‘Not immediately, but over time... bored, lacking any sort of direction or purpose in life, and bereft of the first real attachment I had know him to form for many years, the result was almost inevitable.’ Mycroft sighs and John can only listen, his words frozen in his throat. ‘He used to go down to London; for weekends at first, but gradually for longer and longer visits, until one day he dropped off the map completely.’

_Where were you during all this,_ John wants to say, _he needed you then, and where the hell were you?_

As if he can read John’s thoughts – and with Mycroft, John wouldn’t care to rule it out – Mycroft adds, ‘I do feel partly to blame. I had tried to make him see the opportunities that could be available if he came to work with me, and perhaps pushed too hard. He drew back, and when I lost him... at the time I didn’t have the resources I do now. It took me a long time to find him. Too long.’

‘Where were your parents,’ John asks. Mycroft is talking as though he’s solely responsible.

‘Dead, at that point. Our father when Sherlock was a small boy, and our mother when he was at Eton. Or perhaps I should say: before he was kicked out of Eton.’

‘Sorry,’ John says, on automatic reflex. ‘He never mentioned.’

And then, because the comment about ‘bereft of his first real attachment’ struck home with a bit too much force, John adds, ‘It wasn’t a picnic for me either, you know.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of implying it was.’

‘So was he... very upset, then?’ Because there hadn’t been a hint of it in Sherlock’s letters; he’d complained about being bored, and eventually started to lose interest, but that was it.

‘Well.’ Mycroft sighs, and John hears him shifting position. ‘You do realise how very much I _deplore_ sentiment, and hyperbole. But in truth...’ he pauses, ‘when he received your final letter I thought his heart would break.’

Oh God.

‘I _had_ to,’ John protests, even as his lungs clench in his chest, ‘it made no sense to keep going when I didn’t know if I’d ever settle in the UK. I thought he’d just find someone else, like people do. I never meant to be cruel.’

‘ _Mean?_ ’ Mycroft laughs, as though John has just told a mildly amusing joke. ‘Doctor Watson, if every man could live by what he _means_ to do, then my job would be quite different.’

John bristles at this. ‘Now listen–’

‘No,’ Mycroft snaps. ‘ _You_ listen. You asked, and I answered. I thought you wanted the truth, Doctor Watson, not some comforting fairytale version of it.’

‘I did.’ John takes a deep breath. ‘So how many tries did it take? You know. For him to...’

‘Three,’ Mycroft says crisply. ‘On his second relapse he miscalculated the dose and ended up in hospital, where he went into cardiac arrest and had to be resuscitated. He’s never admitted it but I believe that was what frightened him into sticking at it on the third attempt. When it was all over he was clean, but unrecognisable as my little brother.’

‘God.’ It’s such a terrible _waste_ : of life, of creativity, of Sherlock’s magnificent brain. John sighs. ‘I had no idea. Do you think... maybe... if I hadn’t... if I’d still been around–’

‘Then you would have been the one to track him down to various squalid drug dens, listen to him rant at you, and clean up his vomit.’ Mycroft snorts. ‘Sherlock is very much his own man, Doctor Watson, and chooses his own path. If you don’t know _that_ then you don’t know the first thing about him.’ There’s a weary sigh. ‘Don’t take too much credit to yourself.’

‘Right. Right, no, I–’

‘That being said...’ Mycroft pauses, and John falls silent. ‘If you plan to be involved in his life now... Well. Believe me when I say I certainly hope you’re serious.’

‘What?’ John reels for a moment. ‘I... God, of _course_ I’m serious, he’s fantastic, I–’ 

‘Good. Then there remains nothing further for me to say to you, save that Sherlock has always had a weakness for _tarte aux framboises_.’

John blinks. ‘Er. Yes?’

Mycroft tuts; John can all but feel his impatience on the other end of the phone and grits his teeth. ‘There’s a branch of _Paul’s_ on the other side of the road from you. How else were you planning to explain your prolonged absence?’

\----------

The aftermath of the conversation leaves John with a lingering sense of guilt. Rationally he knows it’s ridiculous: he had done the best he could with the information available to him at the time, he certainly hadn’t split with Sherlock in an intention to be cruel. But all the same, John is loyal above all else and the idea that he – however unknowingly – abandoned Sherlock just when he most needed John is a difficult one to take.

And yet he’s also left with a sense of hope. Sherlock _did_ care for him once, much more than John had dared to believe at the time, and certainly more than could possibly be credible now; it meant more to him than Sherlock’s casual dismissal in the Chinese restaurant would have him believe. But the more important question – because John is self-aware enough to know that, really, renewing his own attraction to Sherlock was never in doubt – is whether Sherlock is attracted to John. And that’s something John can’t work out at all.

Sherlock is a veritable study in contradictions. Which John really should have been able to predict – when has Sherlock ever been straightforward? One minute he’s all friendliness, occasionally even bordering on flirtatiousness (John could swear to it; he’s aware that he’s not the most impartial judge but surely when Sherlock stands that close and tilts his body towards John just _so_ then even he must be aware of how he looks).

And then the next minute he’ll seem to remember who John is and realise what he’s doing, or one of the Yarders will mutter a comment not _quite_ under their breath, or hell, sometimes it seems that all it takes is the bloody wind changing, and Sherlock will pull back, abruptly so cold and distant that John surely must have been imagining Sherlock’s interest, and he could growl with frustration.

Over the first few days that Sherlock’s shoulder heals John keeps him entertained and immobile on the sofa as long as he can with Times cryptic crosswords, a Sudoku Rubix cube he finds in a rare trip to Oxford Street, and texts Lestrade to beg him to stop by with a box of old cases for Sherlock to look through.

Sherlock greets each gesture with suspicion long before he softens into acceptance, even gratitude, but by the time they’ve progressed to watching reality television then he’s leaning his good shoulder against John on the sofa. He criticises the participants robustly and laughs at inappropriate moments, while John says nothing and only delights in the feel of Sherlock’s lean body pressed against him from shoulder to knee, only the thin layers of their clothes keeping him from Sherlock’s warm skin.

But when Lestrade arrives with the requested box of files the mere flicker of his astonished expression is enough to make Sherlock pull away abruptly, and the next morning John comes downstairs to find him fully dressed, already elbows-deep in files and too busy to watch a film with John, have breakfast with him, or in fact look at him altogether, and John resists the urge to bury his face in his hands and sigh.

A couple of weeks later Sherlock seems to have forgotten all about it, to the point where he’s scarcely out of John’s personal space – steering him with a hand on John’s back, touching his arm to get his attention, brushing his fingers as he hands John the TV remote or a mug or a pen – and John has a few wonderful days of thinking that a relationship may not be completely off the cards after all.

There’s even a moment after their post-case dinner (that’s become their own private tradition, just the two of them) where there’s a flicker of... something. John can’t define it for the life of him, all he knows is that one minute he’s looking at Sherlock, all flushed from good food and wine and a puzzle successfully unravelled , and he could swear there’s a flash of _interest_ in Sherlock’s expression when their gazes meet. It only lasts a few seconds, and before John can think about acting on it – Sherlock is so close, it would take barely anything at all for him to just lean in – Sherlock has turned away.

The next day, to John’s dismay, it’s like it never happened; Sherlock is reluctant to emerge from his room, and when he finally does he’s quick to declare himself bored and install himself on the sofa, deaf to all John’s suggestions for amusements.

It wears at John’s temper. He knows he’s being unreasonable: it’s not as though Sherlock _owes_ him anything, just because, long ago, they once had something together. But what Sherlock is doing now, this inching closer before abruptly pulling away: John doesn’t know what to make of it, and it leaves him dizzied and weary.

John tries his best but he’s no saint, and there’s one occasion where he’s pushed to his last nerve because that morning he comes downstairs to use their bathroom and bumps into Sherlock just as he’s coming out of it.

It’s early in the morning, far earlier than Sherlock usually makes an appearance, and so John had felt entirely justified in dragging on his dressing gown and wandering straight down to the bathroom, meaning to nab it before Sherlock gets in there for one of his hour-long showers, but as he approaches the door it opens, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam and Sherlock.

His only covering is a towel snugged tightly around his slim hips, and John stumbles and almost bites his own tongue at the sight of him. Sherlock’s pale skin is flushed from the heat of the water, his hair curling wetly, water drops clinging to his skin, and John blurts, inelegantly, ‘Oh Christ.’

‘John,’ Sherlock says, over the top of John’s exclamation. And really, John would happily appreciate Sherlock’s rare expression of utter mortification if he wasn’t so caught between trying both to look and _not_ to look at the six feet of gorgeous bare skin in front of him (John’s only human, after all).

‘I didn’t think you’d be up,’ Sherlock says, his face slowly staining a deep red. ‘It was a late one, last night, and I assume you’d–’

‘Army training,’ John says. God, the mingled smells of Sherlock’s shower gel and shampoo are just _divine_. ‘I... look, sorry, I didn’t think you’d be up either and I thought I’d just pop in here and–’

‘Of course.’ Sherlock reaches out of sight to the back of the bathroom door and returns clutching his dressing gown which he bundles to his chest. ‘I’m done, let me just...’

He makes to step aside and let John pass; John steps aside also but in the wrong direction, and they have an awkward couple of moments before Sherlock exhales sharply, places his hands on John’s waist, and gently but firmly _moves_ him to one side.

‘All yours,’ Sherlock says stiffly, and then in a flick of towel he’s gone, and John has a glimpse of the back of broad shoulders and a slim waist disappearing into Sherlock’s room.

John exhales a long breath and shuts the bathroom door behind himself. ‘Oh _hell_.’

From there it seems to turn into a day of wrong-footing, of Sherlock one way and John going the other. Later on that morning – in the spacious glass and chrome office of Sebastian Wilkes (successful banker and complete tosser) – John corrects Sherlock when he refers to John as his friend, because the incipient laughter on Seb’s face demeans Sherlock, somehow; Sherlock bringing his _little friend_ along on his little outing.

John would bet Seb doesn’t even think of those as a ‘proper’ job, not like his own, and John snaps ‘ _Colleague_ ,’ because fuck this wanker. This is Sherlock’s job, his career; he works with some of the best minds in the country and is sharper than the lot of them put together. His opinion is sought by Scotland Yard, he solves their uncrackable cases, and there are hundreds of people out there who have received justice – however rough – for their losses, whether of loved ones or treasured belongings, and they’ve Sherlock Holmes to thank for it.

And not to mention that, privately, John thinks _fuck no_. Because they’re not _friends_ : John wants much, much more from Sherlock than just his friendship, and this thing they’re doing, this dance of wanting, of going up almost to the edge of something before backing away... that’s not _friendly_.

Except that Sherlock, usually so clever at reading people, glances at John with his face impassive but the merest flicker of hurt at the backs of his eyes and John wants to bang his forehead on the desk in frustration because it’s clear that Sherlock doesn’t understand at all.

There’s nothing John can do or say to mend things in front of Sebastian, though, and he sinks into the chair next to Sherlock and watches him coldly refuse to show off, and wonders if this tosser had been one of the people at uni that Sherlock had disdained, so long ago now.

The case runs its course, and while John never gets the chance to draw Sherlock aside and say ‘Look, you _know_ I didn’t mean it like that,’ he follows Sherlock around and does his bidding and generally tries to make himself useful, sitting up all night poring through hundreds of books until his eyes blur with tiredness. From Sherlock’s expression, and the way he drags John into a Chinese restaurant and buys him lunch, John thinks perhaps he’s redeemed himself.

Sherlock is dazzling on the case; it’s all John can do not to let his feelings show plain on his face as he watches Sherlock work, and at the end of it all he shuts the door of the flat and turns to Sherlock with a sigh.

‘Thank God that’s all over,’ he says, beginning to climb the stairs and hearing Sherlock’s tread behind him.

Sarah had been crying when John had put her in a taxi at the end of the night, when the Met had turned up to secure the scene, and what made it worse was that it wasn’t obvious crying: huge sobs that he could comfort. Instead tears had been welling up in her eyes and rolling down her white face, almost as though she was unaware of them. He felt terrible, and the knowledge that she was going to a friend’s helped only slightly, since John had spoken to said friend while he was searching for a taxi for Sarah and had been treated with the sort of suspicion he imagined Bluebeard got at his local dating agency.

It was fairly clear that John wouldn’t be seeing her again; at work they’d doubtless meet and be suitably polite and a bit embarrassed, and John sighs. His involvement with Sherlock and this case has doomed him to astonishingly awkward coffee breaks for the rest of his time at that surgery and yet he can’t help but think that it’s a price worth paying.

Goodness only knows what possessed him to ask Sarah out in the first place, save that with her sweet smile and soft fall of brown hair she’d just seemed... _normal_. Nice, and attractive, and normal; she may not be traffic-stoppingly beautiful or forbiddingly intelligent like Sherlock was, but she was clever, and kind, and _interested_ , dammit, which was more than could be said for Sherlock. In fact most days John was increasingly convinced Sherlock wouldn’t give a toss whether John were single, married, or shagging the whole of MENSA, as long as John was available to help with cases.

John takes his coat off before heading for the kitchen and tea. He’s exhausted enough to fall asleep standing up but also jittery with the remnants of adrenaline; if he goes to bed now he’ll be seeing a crossbow every time he shuts his eyes, so a cup of tea sounds like just the thing.

As the kettle boils, John chews pensively at a bit of loose skin by his thumbnail. He really hadn’t thought Sherlock would care about Sarah, except that he so very obviously _had_. Sherlock had invited himself along on their date, for God’s sake, and as Sarah linked his arm and gasped at the circus acts performing in front of them, her arm warm in his and her perfume tickling his nostrils, John tried his best to laugh along with her even as he was acutely aware of Sherlock’s eyes boring into his nape.

The thought of him makes John turn to see what Sherlock is doing and John finds him just standing in the middle of the living room. He looks a bit lost, actually: swaying on his feet and blinking stupidly at his wall of case information as though he can’t remember how it got there and what he’s supposed to do with it.

‘Sherlock,’ John says. And then, when Sherlock doesn’t respond, louder. ‘Oi!’

Sherlock turns to look at him. ‘What?’

‘Go to bed,’ John tells him bluntly. ‘You look bloody awful.’

That’s not quite true; Sherlock does indeed look exhausted but rather than making him look frightful he just looks terribly weary, and it evokes all sorts of messy, protective feelings that John is too tired to deal with right now.

‘Bed,’ Sherlock repeats vaguely, and that right there is an indicator of how tired he is. ‘Yes.’

He looks at John, almost as though he’s going to say something and John raises his eyebrows and turns to face him, trying to make himself as open and unthreatening as possible. Sherlock takes a few steps towards him, and John realises he’s holding his breath when his heart starts to pound.

‘I... thank you,’ Sherlock says at last, looking a bit awkward. ‘For that. Thanks.’

John blows out a breath and smiles at Sherlock. ‘Any time. I mean, obviously when I say that I mean “Please God, never again,” and I’m going to be dreaming about that crossbow for weeks now, but apart from that. Yeah. It was fun.’

A corner of Sherlock’s mouth pulls up in the beginnings of a smile at that, and as he turns to go John blurts, ‘Sherlock.’

Sherlock looks back, and John bites the inside of his cheek before spilling awkwardly, ‘I _am_ your friend, you know. What I said in front of Seb... well, I was annoyed. And he’s a bit of a tosser.’

This time Sherlock’s smile blooms properly: his real one, not the false one he keeps for convincing people he’s harmless.

‘Understood,’ he murmurs. ‘And yes, he always was.’

With no more than that, Sherlock nods a goodnight at him and goes, leaving John with a wealth of questions about the rest of Sherlock’s time at uni that John knows nothing of, and a fierce desire to know whether John might ever conceivably be anything more than just Sherlock’s friend.


	11. Chapter 11

Bereft of any sort of encouragement, all John can do is hope. He has his pride, and he’s certainly not going to actively pine after someone so completely uninterested in him, but Sherlock is arresting, there’s no two ways about it, and John can’t entirely quash the little flicker of ‘what if’ that began with Mycroft’s call.

Besides, it’s not quite true to say that there’s no encouragement whatsoever.

Over the years Sherlock has perfected his posturing of being an island unto himself, to the point that it was flawless when John met him. Or rather, when John met him _again_ ; when John remembers that encounter in Barts lab he often has to remind himself that it actually wasn’t their first meeting, the young man John was in love with is still in there, underneath it all, this Sherlock isn’t actually a different person no matter how he acts. 

But for all his initial attitude, Sherlock takes to John’s presence in his work and life like a duck to water. He’s visibly put out when John’s job prevents him from accompanying Sherlock on a case, although John has never and _would_ never leave him hanging when there was real danger. Sherlock starts to tease John; underneath his exterior Sherlock hasn’t lost his subtle, quick wit, and John greets it with unalloyed delight.

It’s not overt romantic encouragement, no, but it’s not _bad_. They’ve become a team. _Friends_ , in fact, for the first time in their acquaintance (because whatever John had felt for Sherlock, back in that idyllic summer when the world seemed so full of possibilities, it certainly wasn’t _friendship_ ).

Their funds are tight. Sherlock doesn’t get paid for his work with the Yard; well-paying cases like Sebastian’s are few and far between, and Sherlock is occasionally reduced to taking cases he calls dull and tedious purely for the sake of a couple of hundred quid here and there that mean they can pay rent that month. Sherlock quite clearly hates them and John wishes they had money enough between them that Sherlock could afford to decline them, but the alternative is Mycroft bailing them out and John suspects Sherlock would rather starve in a garret than accept financial help from his big brother.

They eat a lot of risotto and beans, and it helps that Sherlock has apparently never turned down a case from a restaurateur anywhere within Zone 6; Sherlock doesn’t eat enough for a man of his height and weight but he still _eats_ , and John quickly becomes an expert in how to feed two grown men cheaply and nutritiously.

All the same, when John is walking past St-Martin-in-the-Fields in Trafalgar Square, the name on the poster outside catches his eye and he’s inside and at the ticket desk almost before he knows what he’s about. It’s Sarasate again, and John has a dizzying moment of déjà-vu – so strong as to be almost tangible – of his younger self standing here, his body fit and firm and unscarred, with a younger Sherlock next to him, all grace and inky curls and the angles of a young man whose newly grown frame hadn’t finished filling out with muscle.

The cost of two front-row tickets all but cleans out the last of their funds, but John pays without a second thought. It’s actually the last of the Shad Sanderson cheque that’s paying for this, and John can’t think of any better use for Sebastian Wilkes’ money than to spoil Sherlock.

And Sherlock’s face, when John presents him with the ticket, is enough to do away with any regrets John may be harbouring.

‘I... how...’ he stammers, long fingers holding the ticket up to his eyes as though he can’t quite believe it. ‘I didn’t even know she was...’

‘Yeah.’ John grins at him. He’s seen her albums in Sherlock’s music collection, and he’s learned to read Sherlock’s CD index well enough to know what their placing means. ‘Thought we might go tonight. If you’ve no plans.’

‘None,’ Sherlock says, in a voice that implies whatever he’d thought to do is cancelled as of this moment. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her play live.’

It was a thoughtless remark, but as Sherlock glances up and meets his eyes it occurs to John for the first time that he’s not the only one with a memory of that prior visit. He’s such an idiot not to see that this could be taken the wrong way, a declaration of intent or a request for a romantic date that Sherlock is more than likely not interested in, and for the life of him John hadn’t meant it like _that_ , he’d just thought it would be something Sherlock might enjoy...

But before he can voice any sort of awkward, faltering explanation Sherlock merely turns away to set the precious ticket carefully aside and says lightly, ‘Leave at six, then?’

‘Yep,’ John says, nodding. Uselessly, as Sherlock’s face is turned away from him, and John can only see the back of his head. ‘Yes, I thought so.’

‘Fine.’ Sherlock glances at him, briefly, and a shy smile lightens his face. ‘And thank you.’

John smiles back. ‘Pleasure.’

\----------

The concert is marvellous. John isn’t one for classical music and so most of the pieces are rather lost on him, but she also plays several popular classics to please the philistines in the audience like John.

Sherlock, by contrast, is in seventh heaven. He steeples his hands in front of his mouth at first but when the concert really gets going he forgets himself enough to wave his long fingers gently in time to the music, his face wreathed in smiles. John has more enjoyment watching Sherlock, in fact, and when he fears he’s being too obvious about it he turns his attention instead to the interior of the old church.

There’s something timeless about it, and as the violin soars up to the heights of the lofty ceiling and twines around the candles in their sconces John thinks of the Old Masters’ paintings in the National Gallery just over the road, and finds it oddly fitting that this is happening so close to so much great art and technical skill.

All too soon, though, the concert is done. The applause brings Sarasate back onto the stage for an encore, and as she plays her final piece John looks over to see Sherlock with eyes like stars, watching as though he wants to wrap this memory up and put it somewhere safe on his hard drive. It’s strange, to say the least, to see Sherlock look at any woman like that when John knows for a fact he’s gay as a maypole, but he says nothing and only joins in with the rapturous applause when Sarasate makes her final bow and exits.

‘ _Oh_ ,’ Sherlock sighs, sinking back into the pew while all around them people start to gather their belongings, pulling their coats on and chattering about which Tube station they need, and whether anyone wants to go for a drink.

By contrast Sherlock doesn’t move, stretching his long legs out in front and closing his eyes with a positively beatific expression. He looks almost post-coital, and as soon as the thought occurs to John he tries desperately to forget it.

‘Good, I thought,’ John says instead, leaning back against the pew when it looks like Sherlock has no intention of moving.

‘Oh, exquisite,’ Sherlock murmurs. ‘The fourth movement of–’

He loses John after that point, rhapsodising over movements and opuses and re-scoring, and John just listens to the deep, joyful thrum of Sherlock’s voice and interjects a ‘Hmm,’ or ‘Yeah,’ whenever it seems appropriate to do so.

Finally, when the church is empty apart from the volunteer staff moving down the aisles collecting discarded programmes and other debris, John bumps Sherlock’s shoulder companionably.

‘Come on, you,’ he says affectionately. Sherlock is lost inside his own head, babbling happily about chromatic intervals and tonic scales, but at John’s nudge he sighs, opens his eyes, and stands to put on the Belstaff.

Sherlock goes docilely towards Charing Cross station when John bumps his shoulder to point him in the direction of it, and bypasses the taxi rank in the station forecourt without a second glance, which is just as well. Spending their money on concert tickets means no more taxis until they’re flush again, in fact Sherlock should count himself lucky they’re on the Tube and not the bus.

But John can’t bring himself to worry about their funds just now, or consider it a bad bargain, not when he has Sherlock next to him in his fit of musical ecstasy.

Some people are only attractive when they’re laughing or smiling; Sherlock is a man who still manages to look desirable even when he’s sulking in his dressing gown on the sofa, which means that when he’s happy then he’s positively _gorgeous_

All the more gorgeous is the way he’s entirely, artlessly unaware of it. John has seen Sherlock manipulating his looks ruthlessly if the need arises but, here and now, he’s just a man radiant with joy after seeing something he likes very much. John notices the glances Sherlock gets on the Tube on the way home – the man himself doesn’t, being a hundred miles away – and he quashes the urge to place a possessive hand in the small of Sherlock’s back to guide him out of the Tube at Baker Street.

Back in the flat Sherlock hums softly to himself as he climbs the stairs and takes his coat off, and only seems to come back to himself when John yawns and says, ‘Night then.’

Sherlock looks over at him. He seems almost to have forgotten John is in the room, which John supposes he ought to mind about, but he’s just been treated to Sherlock’s rich, velvety baritone humming choice phrases and so he can’t say he minds overmuch.

‘Goodnight,’ Sherlock murmurs. He hangs his coat up and drapes his scarf neatly over the peg before turning to John. ‘And thank you.’

He looks almost shy as he says it, and John smiles at him. Like this, Sherlock appears very human. Surely the Yarders would barely recognise him but, selfishly, John wants to keep this side of Sherlock to himself.

‘You’re very welcome,’ John says gently, stepping a bit closer to Sherlock. ‘It was my pleasure.’

‘Hmm.’ Sherlock hasn’t moved away, instead he’s standing rooted to the spot and watching John. There’s a lock of hair falling forward in his face, almost brushing his thick dark eyebrows, and John shoves his hand in his pocket against the impulse to reach up and push it back.

‘I...’ Sherlock says, and stops. He’s leaning toward John, his long spine bending and curling like a plant towards the sun, and John has a little shock that runs through him right down to his toes.

Sherlock – whether he realises it or not – is acting very much like a man after a date, hanging around hoping for a kiss, and John can think of nothing he’d like better than to oblige him.

So he steps close, and dares to reach out and rest a hand lightly on Sherlock’s waist.

‘Perhaps we could do it again sometime,’ he says, because damn it, if Sherlock is going to act like this is a date then so is John, and damn the consequences.

‘Mmm.’ Sherlock’s eyes dip down to John’s hand on his waist before tracking over his face rapidly. This close, John can smell the faint, end-of-the-day traces of Sherlock’s aftershave and he swallows hard; the next instant Sherlock closes the gap between them and leans in to press his mouth clumsily against John’s.

John’s heart gives a great bound in his chest. He’s waited so long for this and he can hardly quite believe it’s happening, that Sherlock has decided to step off that precipice and trust that John won’t let him fall, and John lifts his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, gripping gently but firmly.

Sherlock’s kiss is awkward and hesitant, as though he’s forgotten how to kiss and be kissed by John, and John moves his hand from Sherlock’s shoulder to his nape, rubbing the soft, vulnerable skin there and wordlessly communicating _Easy now. I’ve got you._

At this Sherlock makes a small sound in his throat and cups John’s face in his hands. His large, warm hands, and the touch of them is at once both strange and familiar, like returning to a land where he’d lived long ago, with its half-forgotten language and customs. John strokes Sherlock’s nape a little in response, silking a lock of hair through his fingers, and kisses Sherlock as though he wants to stand there and do nothing else until they both grow old.

Sherlock’s face flushes under John’s attentions, his dark lashes standing out against his skin, and John pauses to stroke the backs of his fingers own Sherlock’s cheek and murmur, ‘God, you’re gorgeous,’ to him.

It’s nothing less than the truth – Sherlock is _stunning_ – but John’s whispered words break the quiet spell that’s been building around the pair of them.

‘John.’ Sherlock opens his eyes and blinks, looking John up and down with a suddenly doubtful expression. ‘I’m not sure that...’

‘What?’ John asks. Sherlock steps away from him, taking his hands back; John automatically catches hold of Sherlock’s shirt, but when he feels how tense Sherlock is he opens his hand and lets go. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘This... isn’t a good idea,’ Sherlock says slowly, waving an ineloquent hand in the space between the two of them. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve... made you think otherwise.’

‘But you...’ John stammers, stupid and blindsided, ‘you kissed me.’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock looks away, a flash of misery crossing his face briefly. ‘I know. I... apologise for leading you on.’ 

He steps back.

‘I... look, whatever it is you’re not sure about, tell me,’ John says, almost pleads. ‘It’s not the end of the world, I’m sure we can–’

‘Goodnight,’ Sherlock interrupts and, before John can say anything or even catch hold of his sleeve, he brushes past John and escapes to the sanctuary of his room, where the door closes with a thunk that he knows very well John won’t contest, for all its quietness.

John is left in the living room, staring at the patterned wallpaper, his head spinning and entirely off-balance.

‘What,’ he says – to no-one, to the skull staring reproachfully at him from the mantelpiece – ‘what the fuck was that.’


	12. Chapter 12

Except that’s nonsense, because John knows exactly what that was all about. How could he not? Sherlock may pride himself on being inscrutable and for the most part he is, but this is something even John can work out.

Given what happened last time, Sherlock has doubts. Reasonable enough, John supposes, now he knows how hard Sherlock took it and how difficult things were in the aftermath, but John has no such doubts. He’s as much in love with Sherlock as he ever was, and if there’s the slightest chance that Sherlock may be willing to give it another go then John would happily spend the rest of his life ensuring Sherlock doesn’t regret his choice for a moment.

The only remaining difficulty is convincing the man himself of this.

John is up early the next morning, after a night spent more awake than asleep (save that he must have slept at some point, since between one blink and the next the light had begun to stream through his curtains and the traffic sounds filter in from the street). He showers and dresses with more care than usual; call it underhand tactics but John isn’t going to let Sherlock shut down this avenue just like that, and so he forgoes his shave – John has a much-treasured memory of Sherlock once saying that he enjoyed the contrast between soft mouth and rough stubble, and then had proceeded to demonstrate his enjoyment by pushing John down onto his bed and kissing him breathless. This particular blue shirt brings out his eyes, according to Harry, and John quickly buttons it and then goes to the kitchen.

Coffee, not tea, this morning: John has enough trouble keeping up with Sherlock’s sharp wits at the best of times and this morning he needs to be hyper-alert. The clock ticks out the seconds as John sits at their kitchen table, sips his coffee, and reads the paper. It’s utterly silent in their flat, and usually John would relish the rare peace and quiet but this morning it means there’s nothing to distract him from re-living the memory of their kiss last night, of Sherlock’s mouth opening, yielding under his, the hard press of Sherlock’s chest and the length of those legs–

A door opens and shuts elsewhere in the flat, breaking John’s reverie, and he barely has a moment to sit up straight and pray that the flush on his face can be attributed to the hot coffee he’s drinking before Sherlock enters the kitchen.

He’s fully dressed right down to his shoes and suit jacket, done up with as much care as a Greek warrior donning his battle armour. His dark suit and claret-coloured shirt make him look every inch the artless and sophisticated young man about town, but his eyes give him away: slightly bloodshot and with shadows beneath them, it looks as though Sherlock has passed a night even more sleepless than John’s.

John’s greeting dies in his throat and instead he offers, ‘There’s coffee left in the pot, if you want.’

‘Thanks,’ Sherlock murmurs, already gravitating to the cafetiere, and John fiddles with the paper and subtly watches Sherlock pour himself a mug and spoon in his usual two sugars.

It makes John think of BBC nature documentaries, of photographers and camera crew parked by the waterhole not moving a muscle while some gorgeous wild thing picks its way down to the water to drink; John watches Sherlock carefully as he sips, watches his throat working, and when Sherlock lowers his mug he catches John’s eye and immediately looks away.

‘Just got some work to do,’ he mutters, and the very fact of him unsettled enough to voice such a redundant statement has John nodding in puppet-like agreement.

Sherlock leaves the kitchen and settles himself at their living room table with his laptop, plugging a pair of headphones into the side and stuffing the earbuds into his ears. He couldn’t broadcast his unavailability more clearly if he were wearing a sign on the slim, straight back turned towards John, and John bites his tongue and turns back to his newspaper, resolving to be patient.

He tries his best, he really does. He reads the whole paper, front to back. He completes all three Sudoku, and has a decent stab at the crossword. When he’s forced to concede defeat on that, he picks up his laptop and moves through to the living room to settle himself in his armchair: he has case notes that need to be typed up, but as he stares at the screen all he sees is Sherlock’s face just after their kiss, and under his fingertips he feels not the smooth, cool tiles of the laptop keypad but the soft silk of Sherlock’s hair.

From this new vantage point John can just about see Sherlock’s laptop screen. It looks to be some sort of hideously advanced physical chemistry; John can’t quite believe that there are people out there who would post such things online for the hell of it, but then he lives with a man who _reads_ it, so anything’s possible.

It looks fairly heavy going even for Sherlock: when John looks up from his own task – staring at an empty blog post while searching vainly for something to write when all he can think is _he kissed me_ – he sees that the set of diagrams Sherlock is studying seem all but identical to the ones he was looking at several minutes ago.

The morning light streams in though the living room window, catching the shine on Sherlock’s dark hair as he bends over his work. It touches his nape, pale and vulnerable, with its downy featherings of black hair tapering away to soft skin. He’s beautiful just sitting there, not being brilliant or dashing about but just quietly studying, and John could watch him for hours. Between the strong, almost severe, lines of his features and his complete absorption in his work he seems inaccessible, like a painting of a medieval scholar or the thinking machine he tries so hard to pretend he is.

But then John transfers his face to Sherlock’s hand, resting on the table next to his laptop with his fingers beating out an erratic tattoo, and is reminded that in other ways Sherlock is still just a man, with his share of hopes and uncertainties. A young man too – they both are, despite all that’s happened to them. Sherlock is only barely out of his twenties, and has escaped acquiring the sort of romantic experience most people accumulate as they blunder through that decade (or so John assumes, and he hopes very much that one day he’ll be allowed to ask).

John watches for several minutes, until the tips of Sherlock’s ears start to flush as he becomes aware of John's scrutiny. Sherlock doesn’t give any other sign of being aware of John, though, and when John can’t bear the tension a moment longer he closes his laptop and goes to stand by Sherlock’s side.

He doesn’t need to say anything: Sherlock looks up as he approaches and grudgingly removes one of his earphones.

‘Yes?’

John, undeterred, merely shoves his hands in his pockets and says mildly, ‘I’d like to speak with you. When you have a moment.’

Sherlock looks back at his laptop. ‘Sorry, busy now, I’m in the middle of something.’

‘You don’t look like you’re in the middle of it,’ John points out. ‘You’ve not moved past that page since you first sat down.’

Sherlock scowls fiercely. ‘I’m _concentrating_. It’s tremendously complex, I wouldn't expect you to understand–’

‘I did advanced chemistry at uni, ta very much,’ John cuts in. ‘As you know full well.’

He’s had just about enough of pretending that he and Sherlock have never met before. He’s tried it, since Sherlock seemed to want it that way rather badly, and it’s got him nowhere, and so now he’s going to try things his way.

‘I’m not saying _now_ ,’ John continues, forcing patience into his voice. ‘Just whenever you’re finished.’

‘I need to go to Bart’s when I’m finished,’ Sherlock says, not looking at John. ‘In fact I probably ought to go now.’

He plucks out his other earbud, closes his laptop, and stands, but John is ready for him.

‘There’s nothing you need at Bart’s, Molly said she’d call the next time she had something in for you.’

‘You...’ Sherlock brushes past John to grab his coat off the hook, ‘we’re out of milk, I’ll just pop out and–’

‘We’re fine for milk,’ John says, following Sherlock and blocking his path to the door. ‘And even if we weren’t, you _hate_ buying milk, the crowds in the shops infuriate you.’

‘The library,’ Sherlock blurts. He sounds increasingly desperate, and his movements have taken on a frantic, jerky quality. ‘I’ve just remembered something I need to look up, I shan’t be a moment–’

‘ _Sherlock Holmes, for God’s sake!_ ’ John thunders, and then immediately wants to kick himself. So much for having a calm discussion where he tentatively lays out his hopes for them and tries to extract Sherlock’s opinion on the same.

It’s worked, though: Sherlock has frozen, staring at John, and John sighs.

‘I just want to talk to you,’ John says, trying to sound reasonable. ‘Please.’

‘I don’t _want_ to talk about it,’ Sherlock hisses at him. ‘ _Why_ , for the love of God, must you insist on it?’

‘Because it’s important,’ John says fervently. ‘You kissed me.’

Sherlock glares at him, his eyes the pale blue-green of glaciers and with all the associated warmth.

‘It was a mistake,’ he tells John, clicking the final ‘k’ with frost crystallising on every syllable. ‘A lapse in judgement that, I assure you, shan’t happen again.’

Oddly it hurts to hear it spoken aloud, even though a blind man could have seen what Sherlock thinks of last night’s truncated kiss.

‘I don’t think so,’ John says, steadily as he can manage when his heart is hammering and his palms are sweating. He may be perfectly calm under hostile enemy fire, but this reduces him to a bundle of nerves. ‘I enjoyed it, and I thought you did too. Won’t you tell me–’

‘ _No_.’ Sherlock whirls away, scrubbing his hands roughly through his hair as though he can rid himself of the memory of last night, or possibly the past ten years. ‘Why must we talk about such a trivial, _stupid_ –’

‘Because it’s neither!’ John explodes, his voice rising along with his temper, despite his best efforts. ‘It’s not _trivial_ ; for God’s sake you’re so gorgeous I can hardly stand to look at you sometimes, I’ve spent bloody _weeks_ over here saying nothing and trying to forget that I’ve ever met you before but I can’t do it any more.’

‘Don’t,’ Sherlock insists, shaking his head, pacing around the room as though he’ll jitter straight out of his skin. ‘Stop it, stop saying those things, you don’t mean it.’

The doorbell rings downstairs, but John registers it only vaguely. He wouldn’t break this conversation now for anything in the world; this is the moment where he burns all his bridges and finds out if he can swim.

‘I won’t stop,’ he says. ‘And I do mean it. You’re still the most amazing person I’ve ever met, and I want you. If you don’t feel the same then I’ll respect that, but I can’t pretend–’

In three huge strides Sherlock has crossed the room to loom threateningly over John, and John chokes as his words suddenly dry up.

‘You’re spoiling it,’ Sherlock snarls, eyes glittering and looking almost feral. ‘Why do you have to _spoil_ things?’ He fists his hands in John’s shirtfront; for one alarming moment John thinks that Sherlock may actually be about to hit him and he grips the lapels of the Belstaff reflexively.

‘Talk to me,’ John begs. The dark wool is thick and coarse in his hands, and he has the superstitious notion that if he lets Sherlock go now then he’ll never catch him again. ‘ _Please_.’

This close Sherlock looks furious, his eyes flashing and a tell-tale stripe of colour along his cheekbones; John _adores_ this man, he’s always known that he would fight to the death for him, he just never considered that the person he might have to fight would be Sherlock.

‘Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll never mention it again,’ John promises, although it half-breaks his heart to do so. ‘I swear to you, I don’t want to force you into anything. But will you not even _try_?’

For a long moment John can’t decide if Sherlock is going to kiss him or hit him: his fists tighten in John’s shirt and his glare flicks between John’s eyes and his mouth, and when he opens his mouth to speak–

‘Excuse me.’

John glances over his shoulder to see a young woman on the landing, hovering uncertainly, and swallows the desire to shout at her.

‘I’m looking for Mr Holmes,’ she continues, looking doubtfully between them. ‘The lady downstairs told me just to come up. Is this a good time?’

‘No,’ John grits out through his teeth, ‘actually, not really, so if you could just–’

‘Yes, of course it is,’ Sherlock says quickly, dropping John like the putrid liver he’d stored in a Tupperware container at the back of the fridge, forgotten about for two weeks before re-discovery.

‘Come in,’ Sherlock says, twitching his coat lapels out of John’s grip and drawing near to her to usher her in solicitously. ‘Do sit down. Would you like something to drink? Or eat? Take a moment to catch your breath, I can see you left home in a hurry.’

The woman sinks gratefully into John’s armchair while Sherlock flaps around her like a great bird in his overcoat, and John wants to shout at the pair of them; her for her dreadful timing and Sherlock for his sudden fit of pretend concern over her, the great, lying, evasive, weaselly _bastard_.

‘Have I caught you on your way out?’ she asks doubtfully, and Sherlock immediately straightens up and shrugs his coat off.

‘Not at all,’ he says, throwing hundreds of pounds-worth of coat across their sofa as though it’s so many old rags. ‘Now then.’

Sherlock folds himself gracefully into his chair, steeples his fingers in front of his mouth and stares at her intently. It’s such a familiar sight that John has a rush of sheer affection for him and has to turn away to hide his face. He grabs a chair from their dining table and draws it over to sit near their guest, and as soon as he gets a good look at her he has a pang of guilt for initially telling her to go away.

She’s clearly been crying: her eyes and nose are reddened and her long hair is pulled back into a messy sort of knot at the back of her head. Her capacious designer handbag gapes open on a mess of crumpled tissues, matching the one clutched in her fist, and as she takes a deep breath her voice catches slightly. She’s pretty, even with her obvious distress, and John has a pang of compassion for her.

‘Would you like some tea?’ he offers, falling back on the firm British conviction that everything can be solved – or at least looks more hopeful – with a cup of tea, and she gives him a watery smile and nods.

‘Now then,’ Sherlock says as John gets up and heads to the kitchen, with more gentleness than John is accustomed to hearing from him, ‘why don’t you start at the beginning, and tell me your name.’

‘Oh, Mr Holmes–’ Her voice hitches on a sob.

‘Sherlock, please.’ Sherlock’s deep voice thrums with understated compassion, and John fills the kettle and fishes out the biscuits and wonders if he’ll ever stop discovering new sides to this man.

‘Sherlock, then. My name,’ she draws a deep breath, steadying from word to word, ‘is Mary Sutherland.’

\----------

John listens to her tale in amazement. It can’t be true, it sounds like one of those stories in the rubbish magazines that Mrs Hudson reads and Sherlock abhors, the sort of publication with tales of how aliens abducted the family dog, that the gullible believe utterly and the intelligent scorn.

Apparently she’d been trying out online dating.

‘Well,’ she says, with a shrug and a rueful smile. She’s pulled herself together under Sherlock’s calming influence, and John sees more of her character coming through. ‘It’s so hard to meet anyone. My mother and father – I mean, James Windibank, my stepfather – live so quietly.’

‘Hmm,’ Sherlock says, tapping his joined forefingers thoughtfully against his mouth. ‘And one day all communication with Mr Angel just stopped?’

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Mary says, lifting her chin and meeting Sherlock’s gaze even as her cheeks flush self-consciously. ‘I’m not stupid. I’ve heard all the stories about online dating and so I insisted we met and he was–’ her voice shakes, but thankfully she keeps her composure, ‘–Hosmer was lovely. Kind, and thoughtful, and funny, and–’

‘Indeed,’ Sherlock says, cutting short this list of the lamented Mr Angel’s perfections with – for him – unusual tact. ‘And then?’

‘Well, we went on a few dates. Hosmer was shy, didn’t like noisy, crowded places – oh, he was such a gentle soul.’ She sighs, a bit shakily. ‘He didn’t drink, and hated the pub, and to be honest he was so softly spoken that I’d never have heard him in a crowded pub. So we used to go to the cinema. A few concerts, that sort of thing.’

‘He just... he travelled a lot for work, you see.’ Sherlock shifts in his chair with what John knows to be impatience at this roundabout story-telling, but makes no comment. ‘All over the world, which was why we didn’t meet up as much as we both wanted. Well, that and...’ her lips tightened, ‘my stepfather wouldn’t have approved. So we were careful only to meet when he was away on one of his business trips, but even so Hosmer would write to me every day, just a little email note to say he was thinking of me.’

Mary takes a deep breath. ‘Lately, though, his emails had got more... well, I mean we used to write about all sorts of things, you know. Families, and books we’d read, and all sorts... and lately he’d been talking around the idea of marriage.’

She smiles shakily, and unfolds a tissue to wipe her nose. ‘He’d not asked me to marry him but, you know, sometimes you can just tell. He said that when he got back from this trip he was looking forward to seeing me, and that he had something very important he wanted to ask me, and I–’ Mary gulps a little and reaches for her tea. ‘I was so happy when he said that.’

‘I see,’ says Sherlock, still looking her over thoughtfully and doubtless reading volumes from her clothes and skin that are illegible to John. ‘And then?’

She spreads her hands simply. ‘Nothing. I didn’t hear from him for a couple of days – which was unusual, because he always used to email me daily, even if it was just a line or two. After a couple more days there was still nothing and so I contacted the FCO and asked them to use their LOCATE service – Hosmer was such a cautious traveller, Mr Homes, I _know_ he would have registered on it. But they’ve no record of him, they say they’ve never had anyone of that name registered with them, and I don’t know what to do.’

Her blue eyes are glossy with tears by the end of her speech, and Sherlock wordlessly passes her the box of tissues he’s started to keep by his chair specifically for this sort of occasion.

‘I just have a few more general questions, if I may,’ Sherlock says, with grave courtesy, and Mary waves a hand at him in a _Go on_ gesture.

Sherlock’s few questions end up being more than just a few, and range over her hobbies (baking, and blogging about the results), her living arrangements (a large 18th-century converted lodge just outside of London, where she lives with her mother and stepfather), and her source of income, and when at last he lapses into thoughtful silence John fancies he can almost hear the gears whirring in Sherlock’s brain.

‘So will you look into it, Mr Holmes?’ Mary asks.

‘Sherlock, please,’ he says absently, before blinking and re-focusing on her. ‘And I certainly shall.’

Immediately Mary gives him a watery smile. ‘Oh, thank goodness.’

‘There are just a couple of points in which I require your assistance.’

‘Of course, anything.’

‘First I should like you to forward me the emails from Mr Angel.’

Mary hesitates, her cheeks flushing.

‘Nothing personal or explicit,’ Sherlock says hastily. John, watching, can’t tell who’s panicking more at the notion and he has a wild and irreverent desire to laugh. ‘Nothing you’d feel uncomfortable sending. Just a few will do.’

‘Yes, alright,’ Mary says.

‘And it’s extremely important that you forward them as _attachments_ , mind, not simply by clicking ‘Forward’.’

‘I... yes, okay, if you prefer,’ Mary says, puzzled but still game.

‘Secondly, I wish you to say nothing to your mother or your stepfather about this visit,’ Sherlock instructs, tapping his long fingers thoughtfully against the arm of his chair. ‘At least not for the next day or two, by which time I hope to have an answer for you.’

‘Oh my,’ Mary exclaims, her face brightening. ‘So soon?’

‘I would venture to say so, yes,’ Sherlock says. ‘In fact, my final request, if I may be so bold, is to pay a visit to your house tomorrow afternoon. I’ve something of a weakness for 18th-century buildings, you see–’

John barely manages to keep a straight face at this; it’s the first _he’s_ heard of this particular weakness, and in reality he suspects Sherlock wouldn’t know 18th-century architecture if he fell over it.

‘And I also,’ Sherlock continues, without so much as a flicker of a glance in John’s direction, ‘hope to be able to update you on your case at the same time.’

Mary smiles at Sherlock, relief making appear an entirely different woman.

‘Until tomorrow, then,’ she says, standing, and now John sees what Sherlock noted as soon as she walked in the door: she’s wearing odd shoes. Both are black ballet pumps but one has a patterned toecap and the other plain, exactly the sort of mistake that’s easy to make when rushing out the door in a hurry.

‘Tomorrow,’ Sherlock says, standing likewise and shepherding her unobtrusively towards the door without actually touching her, and she’s at the threshold before she hesitates.

‘There is... one final thing,’ she falters.

Sherlock rumbles a sound of polite inquiry, even though John can see his impatience to have her gone so he can get on.

‘Hosmer used to say, sometimes, that... I mean he never really used to talk about his work; I would ask him but he’d always put me off until he just flat out told me he couldn’t discuss it. But he did hint, once or twice, that it was dangerous work he did, and now what with everything that’s happened and with the FCO swearing they’ve no record of him...’ she glances around nervously, leaning in, ‘Mr Holmes... Sherlock... I think he might have been working undercover.’

‘Undercover,’ Sherlock says, his face entirely unreadable.

John has no such control over his own, and he can’t conceal his astonishment as she glances between them.

‘You know,’ she says, her voice dropping to almost a stage whisper. ‘A _spy_.’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock says gravely, still as impassive as one of the stone lions in Trafalgar Square. ‘Thank you for mentioning that; it is a particular maxim of mine that the smallest details can sometimes turn out to be the most important.’

He opens the door for her and, with a last exchange of farewells, she’s gone.

John blows out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. ‘Crikey.’

‘Indeed.’ Sherlock whirls away and walks off, phone already out and fingers moving over it.

‘You going to call Mycroft, then?’

Sherlock doesn’t even look up from his phone. ‘Hmm?’

‘Well, I mean if the FCO say they’ve no record of him – which of _course_ they would say – then Mycroft would be the best person to–’

‘Oh, that.’ Sherlock flicks his fingers dismissively, as though brushing away a fly. ‘Please. I’ve not the slightest intention of calling Mycroft.’

‘So you’ve got... you’ve other sources, then?’

At last John has Sherlock’s full attention, although it’s only to lift his head and glare at John.

‘Of course Mr Angel isn’t a spy,’ he scoffs, ‘don’t be ridiculous.’ He looks back down at his phone. ‘The man planted the seeds for the idea and then she supposes she came up with it by herself.’ Sherlock gives John a black look from under heavy eyebrows. ‘Comes from watching too many Bond films.’

This still leaves John floundering in the mystery. ‘Then how are you going to–’

‘You really will _never_ believe me,’ Sherlock interrupts, with a touch of asperity, ‘but I tell you again: if you have the details of a thousand cases at your fingerends, it is odd indeed if you can’t unravel the thousand and first.’

He clicks a final button on his phone, and slides it back into his pocket with an air of finality.

‘I’m going out,’ he announces, turning away, and John chokes back the _Wait, no, stop_ that rises to his lips.

‘Not sure when I’ll be back,’ Sherlock continues distractedly, collecting his belongings. ‘Don’t wait lunch for me. Or supper, in fact, I–’

Sherlock turns to the coatrack and the empty peg – along with the sight of his coat flung across the sofa – brings him up short.

‘I...’ he begins, and stops. Before John’s eyes his expression changes, a wary guardedness replacing the keen animation of a new case.

It’s an almost unprecedented sight, but John is seeing Sherlock lost for words and after a few moments he relents and shakes his head.

‘Later,’ John says, and if Sherlock doesn’t look happy about this – his lips compress and he frowns – at least he doesn’t actively contradict John. And right now, as Sherlock scoops up his coat and leaves without a backward glance, John feels as though that in itself is a hard-won gain.


	13. Chapter 13

There’s no sign of Sherlock for the rest of that day. God knows what he’s up to; John keeps himself busy as best he can, and when evening rolls around he cooks himself a solitary meal and eats it with the TV on in the background for company. At last when he’s washed up his plate and tidied the living room – the crumpled ticket from last night’s concert giving him pause – John can no longer put off the fact that he’s not going to see Sherlock that evening and that he needs to go to bed.

But that’s the moment that Sherlock, with his unerring instinct for timing, bursts in through the front door of 221 and bounds up the stairs.

He’s in fine spirits, that much is obvious. He quivers with energy, his eyes sparkling, and John could swear that even his _hair_ curls more tightly. John can’t help but smile in sympathy.

‘Good day then,’ he asks dryly.

Sherlock glances at him, seeming vaguely surprised to see John standing there.

‘ _Excellent_ day,’ he purrs, eminently pleased with himself.

‘Not so good for Mr Angel though, I suppose,’ John says, but Sherlock’s attention is already elsewhere and he only gives a vague grunting reply.

John watches him for a few moments as he takes a CD case from the capacious pockets of his coat, opens it, and gently slides the CD into the drive of his laptop.

Like this Sherlock is more attractive than ever, and John watches him silently for a few moments. But he can’t just stand there _ogling_ the poor bloke and so John takes a breath, reminds himself that his time will come, and says quietly ‘Night, then,’ as he turns away for bed.

There’s no reply, but then John doesn’t really expect one. He knows Sherlock of old.

\----------

The morning brings with it a dizzy mix of anticipation, nerves, and curiosity. Today John is going to find out the answer to the problem of Mr Hosmer Angel; Sherlock has promised Mary Sutherland a visit and an explanation, and Sherlock may be many things but he’s not someone who fails to deliver on a promise. And John has promised _himself_ that once the case is done he’ll finish the conversation with Sherlock. Sherlock may not like it – in fact John can almost guarantee he won’t – and John is reluctant to force the issue save for one thing: during their argument earlier John heard every single point Sherlock could summon save the one that’s perhaps the most important: that Sherlock doesn’t feel the same. And so John says nothing, but he hopes.

Downstairs in their living room, Sherlock has fallen asleep on the sofa. John half-expected to find him still hammering away at his laptop, but at some point Sherlock must have lain down on the sofa in his favourite thinking pose and then, quietly and unceremoniously, dozed off. John stops when he sees him, pulled up short by the relaxed, peaceful expression on Sherlock’s face, his hair ruffled and his mouth open slightly. He wants to kiss Sherlock, and wake him up to pursue their conversation, while also wanting to drape a blanket over him and shut the blinds to let him sleep longer, and he firms his resolve to have things out with Sherlock – for good or bad – once the case is done.

Here and now, though, John would be prepared to swear that Sherlock _feels_ the weight of John’s gaze on him as his breathing changes and he stirs. John turns away quickly – god, there’s nothing creepier than waking to find the person who’s just admitted they fancy you actually _staring at you while you sleep_ and he almost flees to the kitchen, so that by the time he hears Sherlock yawn the kettle is already full and set to boiling.

‘Morning,’ John calls through from the kitchen. He leans round the doorframe to see Sherlock squinting blearily at him from the sofa.

Sherlock grunts a reply, rubbing his hands over his face, and John can’t resist saying, ‘Your bedroom’s right there you know, sleeping on the sofa’s murder on your back.’

Sherlock drops his hands to give John a sour look. ‘I wasn’t asleep.’

John matches him look for look. ‘Right, course not. Just resting your eyes and doing some deep breathing, were you?’

‘Shut up,’ Sherlock snaps, and John bristles for a moment before relenting. This is a poor beginning to the day, with the pair of them snapping at each other already and tired from two nights’ poor sleep, and John rubs his hand over his face briefly.

‘Coffee?’ he says, a peace offering.

But Sherlock isn’t yet ready to make peace.

‘No,’ he says curtly, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa and sitting there briefly before standing.

‘What time do we need to leave for Mary’s?’ John asks quickly, as Sherlock looks set to disappear.

‘No need for you to come along on this one,’ Sherlock says, the just-woken up sexiness of his voice at odds with his clipped words, ‘it’s more brain than brawn.’

So that’s how Sherlock is trying to play it. John sets his jaw. Sherlock isn’t getting out of things that easily; John has had training instructors and commanding officers who could reduce grown men to tears, and Sherlock’s catty remarks barely raise a blister in comparison.

‘Right,’ John says evenly, not looking at Sherlock as he gets out teabag and mug, ‘I _will_ come, though, even so.’

He phrases it as a statement of fact, not a question, and holds his breath while he awaits Sherlock’s reply, until at last, from the living room, he hears, ‘Four-thirty. Sharp.’

It’s grudging in the extreme but it’s something, and John pokes his head out of the kitchen to say ‘Done,’ but all he see is a view of Sherlock’s back as he stalks off towards the bathroom, managing to radiate disdain simply through the set of his shoulder blades.

\----------

John has a morning shift at the surgery, and then a lunchtime appointment with his therapist who he hopes puts his vagueness and non-answers down to low blood sugar on this occasion, but who likely knows him far too well to be fooled. John would like nothing better than to stop going to her – it’s clear she hasn’t the slightest idea of what makes him tick – but unfortunately it’s a condition of his Army pension and so the pair of them are locked into their fortnightly sessions of staring uncomprehendingly at one another.

As soon as it’s over John goes for a walk in the park, trying to walk off some of his lingering frustration, until at last he gives in to the nagging urge that’s been tugging him homeward almost since he left that morning.

John has walked farther than he’s realised, and by the time he gets home it’s 4.10pm. Just enough time for a cup of tea before he and Sherlock need to leave...

...but when he climbs the stairs to their flat he finds Sherlock already in his coat.

‘Hello,’ John says, ‘thought you’d leave without me?’

‘No,’ Sherlock says, which is a flagrant lie because he’s wearing the Belstaff, which John knows is thick and heavy enough that Sherlock only puts it on when he’s just about to leave the house.

‘Good job I came back when I did, then,’ John says dryly. ‘Would have been terrible if you’d had to leave without me.’

John is under no illusions that Sherlock would have waited a single second after 4.30pm, following their agreement down to the letter and not an inch further. Yet the fact remains that he _did_ wait, however grudgingly, and so John relents and doesn’t tease any more, merely makes and drinks his tea in silence.

The Tube ride to the station is conducted in the same silence, and John can hardly believe that a mere thirty-six hours ago he was escorting an entirely different version of Sherlock home after the Sarasate concert.

On the train Sherlock immediately takes out his phone and turns his attention to it, and John can’t decide if he’s genuinely thinking or just working himself deeper into one of his black moods: the one he knows better than to interrupt, and the other he tries to tease Sherlock out of. Or used to, anyway.

Sherlock must feel John’s gaze on him, for he glances up and scowls. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ John looks away for a moment, at the gorgeous scenery rolling past the window, before looking back at Sherlock. ‘So you’ve solved it, then?’

Sherlock grunts. ‘Possibly.’

‘Is that what you were up to yesterday?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock says curtly. John thinks that this will be all he gets, but a moment later a faint smile tugs at the corners of Sherlock’s mouth. ‘I went to see Namrita.’

The name means nothing to John. ‘Oh?’

‘Mmm. Fourth best mind in the country.’ Sherlock’s smile hardens. ‘Mycroft is furious he can’t get her to work for him.’

‘Ah.’ And now John can’t help but smile too; Sherlock’s schadenfreude is so infectious. ‘And she gave you that CD. Software, I take it?’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock stares out of the window pensively, and John thrills inwardly to see the return of the familiar, much-loved expression of fierce concentration and joy in the chase. ‘And a very useful bit of software it was too.’

\----------

The next words John hears from Sherlock are at the front door of the Sutherland family home, where he shows his brightest smile to Mary when she answers the door.

‘Hello again,’ he says, all charm to her, and John tamps down a jealous little flare and reminds himself that _he_ was the one Sherlock kissed, just a day and a half ago: held and kissed as though Sherlock would go mad if he didn’t touch John that instant.

‘Hello.’ Mary waves them inside, into an entrance hall that’s tastefully yet expensively decorated, and John glances around. It’s all so very different from the homely clutter of 221B.

Sherlock accepts the offer of a coffee with a perkiness that’s utterly alien, and John asks for a tea, and once they’re settled in the living room John sips at his tea, glancing at the orchids on the broad, sunny windowsill, and prays he doesn’t spill anything on the designer sofa.

Sherlock, still in his persona of 18th-century architecture enthusiast, is exclaiming over the room, managing to sound terribly observant and knowledgeable but without, John realises as he listens, actually _saying_ anything of substance.

‘Such delightful design,’ Sherlock says, almost _gushes_. ‘And what lovely gardens. I take it you have help?’

The way Sherlock says it – ‘help’ – with each consonant dropping artlessly into place, his accent mysteriously becoming more RP than usual, conjures up pictures in John’s mind of the Holmes country estate. John has never actually seen it or heard anything about it but, just from Sherlock’s tone, John almost feels he could describe it. Housekeepers, and under-gardeners galore, no doubt.

‘Oh!’ Sherlock exclaims, as though he’s just remembered something. He turns to John. ‘You did send the email to Lestrade before we left, didn’t you?’

This is the first John has heard of any such email, and he stares at Sherlock blankly.

‘You know,’ Sherlock prompts. ‘The one I _told_ you about; I specifically said that it had to go this morning, did you not...?’

When John shakes his head dumbly, Sherlock sighs his displeasure and pulls his phone out with his long, elegant fingers.

‘So sorry about this,’ he says to Mary, pulling a little face, ‘it’s dreadfully important; would you mind if I used your Wifi?’ He smiles charmingly at her, dimples flashing. ‘I’m at the end of my mobile data allowance this month – been rather careless with it.’

‘Of course, go ahead,’ Mary says. ‘The box is in the hall and the password is just the default one on the box, we never got around to changing it.’

She makes to stand but Sherlock beats her to it.

‘No, please don’t trouble yourself, I’m sure I can find it.’ He walks to the door, and smiles apologetically at her. ‘This won’t take a moment.’

Before Mary can set down her teacup he’s gone, and John smiles awkwardly at her.

‘So how long have you lived here?’ he says quickly, before she can get up and follow Sherlock.

Whatever his reasons, it’s clear that Sherlock needs some time to do whatever he’s doing; John knows full well that Sherlock would no more forget an important email than he would overlook a critical step in one of his experiments. It would have been fine if he’d actually _shared_ the plan with John, but in the absence of that...

‘Most of my life,’ she says. ‘My father bought it when I was a child; it was falling to pieces when he got it but he did it up over time, and now...’ she shrugs, gesturing to the room.

‘Must have been a lot of work for him,’ John says.

‘Oh yes.’ Mary smiles. ‘Running his own business, restoring the house... he never sat still.’

‘So your stepfather hasn’t...’ John nods toward the door leading to the rest of the house. ‘Not really his cup of tea, then?’

‘Oh.’ Mary looks away, turning her mug between her palms. ‘Well, he’s... not that sort of person. I mean, he’s very busy with his job in the City,’ and John has clearly been picking up more of Sherlock’s methods than he realises because it’s plain as day that she doesn’t get on with her stepfather, and thinks her mother chose a poor replacement for her father.

‘Yeah, I imagine that must be pretty time-consuming,’ John says, murmuring social niceties even as he frantically tries to think of another topic of conversation, because she’s looking at the door as though she’s going to get up and go in search of– 

‘Done,’ Sherlock announces, striding back into the room. ‘Thanks awfully.’

John can tell just by looking at him that Sherlock has found whatever it was he was after: there’s a slight spring in his step and his eyes gleam fiercely.

But the next moment, as he sits down and faces Mary, his expression wipes itself clean of anything but compassion.

‘I’m sorry to say,’ Sherlock begins, sounding genuinely sorry as he sets aside his coffee and clasps his hands together, ‘that you shan’t see Mr Angel again for a very long time. In fact I consider it almost a certainty that you’ve heard the last of him.’

For a second Mary’s mouth quivers and John – absurdly – wishes they were in Baker Street, where Sherlock has taken to keeping a box of tissues by his armchair for precisely this sort of conversation. But she masters herself.

‘You’re...’ her voice is steady, despite her distress, ‘you’re certain about that, are you?’

‘I am.’

Mary swallows and takes a mouthful of her tea. ‘He’s dead, then?’

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, before speaking slowly. ‘Not dead, no.’

‘Oh!’ Her face brightens. ‘Well then, why won’t I–’

‘He is, however, already happily married,’ Sherlock says, and John could cheerfully throttle Sherlock for the total lack of softness with which he breaks the news.

Mary pales, her mouth falling open. ‘What?’

‘I’m sorry to tell you,’ Sherlock says gravely, ‘that Hosmer Angel is not, in fact, his real name. Not only that, but he also has a wife and children elsewhere. I’m afraid you’ve been the victim of a most cruel and unscrupulous charlatan.’

‘But...’ Mary looks so thoroughly and comprehensively shocked that John wants to take her mug off her before she drops it. ‘No, that’s not... he _can’t_ be, he’s not that sort of–’

‘On the contrary: he most certainly is,’ Sherlock interrupts.

In the utter silence that follows John is aware of several things: the whisper of Sherlock’s palms as he rubs them together (not _quite_ at his ease, then, despite his persona), the gleam of light off Sherlock’s sleek, dark head, and the faint crunch of tyres on gravel at the front of the house.

‘I just can’t believe it,’ Mary says quietly, blinking. She turns her mug round in her hands, not drinking but merely staring down into it as though the dregs hold the answer to the puzzle.

Usually, John knows from previous experience, this is the point at which Sherlock loses interest. The riddle has been solved, he’s once more demonstrated his cleverness to all around him; for Sherlock the matter is done, and the very next week the details will have already vanished from his head, replaced by the next problem.

This time Sherlock seems oddly patient, but even as he leans forward to ask Mary, ‘Do you have relatives nearby? Or friends? Someone you could go and stay with for a few days?’ John can see his leg starting to bounce lightly on the ball of his foot. It could just be ordinary impatience, save that there’s something about Sherlock that warns John they’re not out of the woods yet.

‘I... yes,’ Mary says vaguely, ‘yes, I suppose I could call my aunt–’

‘Do,’ Sherlock interrupts. ‘Do you have the number there on your mobile?’ And at Mary’s nod: ‘Best give her a call now, before you get distracted. Go ahead, don’t mind me.’

Footsteps crunch on the gravel and Sherlock catches John’s eye, tilting his head subtly towards the door, and John knows that Sherlock doesn’t want to be disturbed by whoever this is. His entire focus is on Mary as she haltingly speaks with her aunt.

‘I’ll just go and get that,’ John murmurs, slipping out of his seat and away into the hall, where he comes face to face with a slim, fair-haired man letting himself in through the front door.

‘Hello,’ John says, pasting an insincere smile onto his face, and advances to hold out a hand. ‘John Watson.’

The man ignores the proffered hand, staring at John in shock.

‘We’re friends of Mary’s,’ John says. ‘Just popped round briefly.’

_This_ gets a reply.

‘She doesn’t have friends,’ the man grunts. ‘And they definitely don’t just pop round. I’m her father, so I should know–’

Ah, the mysterious Mr Windibank.

‘Well, we’re new friends,’ John temporises. Where the hell is Sherlock? Surely he’s done by now, what more can he possibly have to say to Mary? ‘She... might not have mentioned us yet.’

James Windibank looks John over coldly. ‘I assure you, Mr Watson, that had Mary made any new acquaintances then I would certainly know about it. I take a keen interest in Mary’s activities.’

John returns his look sourly. _I just bet you do._

All he says aloud is ‘Well, you see, we met... um... at this thing the other night–’

‘Ah, Mr Windibank, I presume,’ Sherlock says brightly, stepping up behind John. ‘Perhaps we might have a brief word? And then Dr Watson and I will be out of your way in a brace of shakes.’

‘Who the hell are you?’ James Windibank demands. A thin stripe of red is starting to flush along each cheekbone, and John adjusts his stance subtly in case this idiot tries to throw a punch. 

‘Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective,’ Sherlock says, and John mentally shrugs. So much for being undercover.

For the first time in the whole exchange, a flash of uncertainty cross Windibank’s face. ‘I don’t have to talk to you.’

‘Mmm.’ Sherlock’s smile is all teeth. ‘And yet I think you will, won’t you? Or–’ he pitches his voice slightly louder, glancing pointedly at the living room door, ‘would you prefer to have this conversation here?’

‘Shut up!’ Windibank snarls, but he sets his briefcase down and walks past them to open the door and wave them through.

In the library he stops and turns on them.

‘What do you want?’ he says, but his face tells a different story to his words.

Sherlock stalks closer. ‘Oh, I think you know.’

Windibank’s throat works, and he rubs his palms against his suit jacket. ‘It’s not illegal, you know. There’s nothing you can do, even if you could prove anything.’

‘I can prove everything,’ Sherlock spits, as though each word disgusts him, his long hands bunching tightly. ‘And not illegal, perhaps, but cruel. I can safely say that you are one of the lowest pieces of scum I’ve ever had the displeasure of encountering during my work to date.’

‘Steady on,’ John says uneasily, visions of libel cases dancing in his head, and Sherlock spares him a glance.

‘Nevertheless,’ Windibank says, his voice slowly growing in confidence, ‘given that it’s not illegal and that no further action is possible, I’m asking you to leave my house at once.’ He pulls out his mobile from his inner jacket pocket and brandishes it. ‘Before I call the police.’

If looks could kill then Sherlock’s expression would have James Windibank measuring his length on the library floor; watching the pair of them is like watching a rat try to outstare a wolf and, of all the shocking things, actually succeeding.

At last Sherlock exhales slowly, measuredly, through his nose, and James Windibank presses his lips together in a nastily triumphant little smile.

‘Come, John,’ Sherlock says at last, turning away and shoving his hands into his coat pockets to draw its folds around him. His face is thunderous, and John is starting to put two and two together, although he’s still not sure whether he’s got four or forty-four. This man is presumably somehow responsible for Hosmer Angel’s disappearance, and John’s own hackles start to rise as Windibank follows them both to the library door.

‘Enjoy your journey back to London, Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ he says, almost gloating. ‘So sorry my foolish stepdaughter dragged you all the way out here for nothing.’

Sherlock stops dead, and there’s an odd tone to his voice as he says, ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s been for nothing, Mr Windibank.’

Before John can move Sherlock turns gracefully on his heel, coat-tails flicking out, and there’s a meaty smack of flesh.

Windibank reels back, clutching his face, and Sherlock smiles even as he wraps his left hand around the knuckles of his right and massages them.

‘Holy shit,’ John says, horrified. He can’t believe Sherlock just _punched the man in the face_ ; Jesus Christ, John isn’t looking forward to explaining this one to the local constabulary.

‘Come,’ Sherlock says again, turning back to the library door and sweeping through it, and John spares a glance at Windibank just long enough to satisfy himself that the man is dazed but conscious, albeit with blood trickling from his nose, before dashing after Sherlock.

In a trice Sherlock has opened the front door and left, his long legs striding down the driveway, and John is about to follow when a soft voice says, ‘Is he gone?’

John turns.

Mary is hovering just outside the living room door, tucking her mobile back into her jeans pocket.

‘Yes,’ John says, glancing at Sherlock’s retreating figure. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘I just wanted to thank him,’ Mary says. She’s not smiling but there’s a new sort of resolution about her. ‘Well, both of you, really, I’m...’ she pauses, but forges ahead, ‘I mean, not _happy_ , but it’s always better to know than to wonder. Don’t you think?’

The library door is still shut when John glances at it and nods. Some things, perhaps, are best left unknown.

‘And,’ Mary takes a deep breath, ‘I wanted to thank him for what he said.’

‘You’re welcome,’ John says, taking a couple of steps towards the open front door. He doesn’t want t rush her, but nor does he much fancy the idea of still being here when the blood-soaked James Windibank makes good on his threat to ring the police. ‘I–’

‘It was very kind of him,’ Mary finishes, and that brings John up short.

Sherlock’s clients have described him as many things, over the past several months, but in John’s experience ‘kind’ has never been one of them, and he pauses.

‘What _did_ he say?’

Mary smiles at him: a small, sad smile.

‘He told me that I should put Hosmer out of my mind, and not let one failed love affair ruin the rest of my life. He made me promise that I’d go out and find someone else, and be happy with them. He was quite emphatic about it, actually.’

John blinks. Sherlock as a relationship advisor is an entirely foreign concept, but he looks at Mary – raw and heartsore from a failed relationship that she’d thought would last the rest of her life – and has a faint glimmer of understanding.

‘He also,’ Mary says, frowning slightly, ‘insisted I should move out of here. In fact he made me promise I would.’

‘I would take his advice,’ John says, ‘he’s a clever bloke.’

‘I will,’ Mary says. ‘I’m going to stay with my aunt for a week – perhaps I’ll start looking at flats while I’m there.’

‘Great.’ There’s a noise from the library, and John takes a couple of steps to the front door. ‘It was lovely to meet you. Take care of yourself, alright?’

John doesn’t wait to hear her reply, merely tosses a ‘Bye!’ over his shoulder as he leaves.

Sherlock’s legs are long and his walking speed increases in direct correlation with his temper, therefore John has to jog quite a distance before he catches up with Sherlock.

‘So,’ John says, once he’s got his breath back. Sherlock says nothing, his expression thunderous. ‘I assume that James Windibank is behind the disappearance of Hosmer Angel?’

Sherlock shoots a glance at him, still scowling, and for a moment John honestly thinks Sherlock is going to snap at him and that they’ll be making their own ways home separately.

But instead, as he so often does, Sherlock unbends enough to explain himself to John. ‘He _was_ Hosmer Angel.’

John boggles. ‘ _What_?’

‘Oh God, it’s easy enough to _see_ , if you’d only–’

John raises a warning eyebrow and Sherlock catches himself. ‘The nature of their few dates – cinema, concerts, all evening engagements in dimly lit spaces – suggested that he had some aversion to being seen by her in strong light. This was further reinforced by his attire – beard and tinted glasses – and his manner of speaking, which Mary herself described as “softly spoken”. All of it taken together suggests that he was someone she would recognise, if shown his face shorn of all those aspects that could conceivably be a disguise.’

Sherlock pauses for breath. ‘And if she would subdue her vanity enough to wear her glasses when meeting him.’

‘Her glasses?’

‘Of course, her glasses!’ Sherlock all but shouts, waving a hand for emphasis, before shoving it in his pocket and re-doubling his pace. ‘It’s clear enough to see, from the faint marks on the bridge of her nose, that she habitually wears glasses of some sort. Hasn’t the nerve for laser eye surgery, and can’t get used to contacts.’

As always with Sherlock, what seemed incomprehensible only moments before now is so obvious that John feels like an idiot for not spotting it himself.

He grabs for the one question that’s still unanswered. ‘But, I mean... _why_? What would make him do such a thing?’

‘Ah.’ Sherlock’s eyes gleam, pleased John has asked. ‘Her father was a very financially astute man, although not quite so clever as he thought he was given that he overlooked a rather large and obvious loophole.’

John listens to Sherlock’s explanations: of the family’s financial circumstances, of Mary’s money held in trust that delivered a generous annual income, to which her mother and stepfather had access as long as she lived under their roof. That last is one of Sherlock’s deductions rather than fact – it _must_ be since there’s no way Sherlock could have seen any of the relevant papers – but the whole chain of logic hangs together so neatly that it’s impossible to disbelieve.

‘So that email to Lestrade,’ John says, ‘that you send from the house...’

‘Ah yes.’ Sherlock’s face lightens. ‘Just clearing up a little point of curiosity for myself; the originating address details on the email headers from Hosmer Angel matched the one on the blank email I just sent to myself.’

‘And that CD you got from your friend?’

‘That...’ Sherlock glanced at John again, and John can tell already that he’s not going to like what he’s about to hear. ‘Suffice to say that, if any additional proof were needed, James Windibank’s Oyster card account demonstrates conclusively that he was certainly _not_ out of the country as he claimed during those time periods.’

‘You...’ John doesn’t know whether to be appalled, admiring, or amused, ‘you hacked into–’

Sherlock waves a hand. ‘Got in through the back door–’

‘–the personal data of countless people–’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, John, only Mr Windibank’s was of any interest.’

Laughter wins out. Thank God Sherlock and this mysterious Namrita are on the side of the angels, albeit ones with rather grubby wings.

‘What?’ Sherlock asks, looking just a touch offended at John’s amusement, but his face clears when John says ‘Amazing.’

‘Oh well,’ Sherlock begins to have that sleekly pleased look he always gets under John’s praise. ‘Simple, really.’

‘No,’ John insists. ‘Not simple. Bloody confusing, in fact; I don’t know how you saw through it.’

Sherlock only hums, a rumble of sound that’s almost more like a purr.

‘But,’ John asks, as they turn into the side road that will bring them to the station, ‘why did you tell her he was married? Why not... I don’t know... tell her he’d died, or something?’

Sherlock snorts. ‘And make him a martyr in her eyes? She’d never look at another man again. No. Anger is a much more potent motivator, and it’ll serve her better in these coming few months.’

‘I see.’

The glimmer of understanding that John had back at the house sharpens and grows, and he follows Sherlock into the station while deep in thought.

On the platform they’ve twenty minutes to wait for the next London train; Sherlock sits on one of the benches on the platform, stretching his long legs out in front of him and closing his eyes, and John sits next to him.

This close, John can see the dark circles under Sherlock’s eyes, the pallor of his skin, and he privately bets himself a fiver that Sherlock dozes off on the train. Now that the case is done, the urge to pick up where they left off is almost unbearable, but not here and now, like this.

‘Don’t,’ Sherlock says, out of nowhere.

John startles. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘You were _thinking_ , I could feel it.’

Unseen by Sherlock, John rolls his eyes.

‘Actually I was thinking about that punch you threw at James Windibank.’ John smiles a little. ‘If you’d told me the explanation before we went in there, I’d have held your coat.’

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth tips up a fraction.

‘I’m also thinking that I never taught you how to do that,’ John continues, ‘so someone’s obviously shown you how to handle yourself in a scrap. That was a good punch.’

Sherlock lets the pause hang in the air for a long time before, almost unwilling, he says, ‘I got my black belt in judo. First Dan. I did say I was going to.’

It’s only the smallest, most glancing reference to their shared history, but John seizes on it.

‘You did.’ He smiles at Sherlock, although Sherlock can’t see it. ‘What else did you–’

‘No.’ Sherlock is already regretting it, it seems, for he frowns.

John temporises. ‘No what?’

At last Sherlock opens his eyes, and glares at John. ‘I know what you’re trying to do.’

The swallows dive in and out among the station’s eaves while John considers his next words carefully. ‘We can leave this for now, if this isn’t a good time. But sooner or later I want to–’

Sherlock springs out of his seat with a groan and paces a few steps away, scrubbing his hands through his already wild hair. ‘Oh God, _why_?’

‘Because you kissed me, damn it.’ In a flash John is on his feet also. ‘The other night _you_ kissed _me_ , and I was bloody ecstatic because I’ve been wanting it to happen since I met you again.’

‘You’re dredging up the past,’ Sherlock snarls, turning on him and using his height to loom over John. ‘For God only knows what–’

‘Because it was _good_ ,’ John says, standing his ground and pleading. ‘Sherlock, whatever you feel now and whatever happened since then, we were good together.’

He approaches Sherlock, dimly aware of the station manager on the speaker system ( _Please stand clear of the platform edge; the next train does not stop at this station_ ) but the rest of his attention is focussed on the wild-haired man in front of him.

‘Let’s try again,’ John murmurs, close enough to touch, and he dares to reach out and rest a hand on Sherlock’s arm. ‘Come on. It was million-to-one odds that we would ever bump into each other again, but I’m head over heels for you, you mad bastard, you must know that.’

For a moment, Sherlock’s expression softens and he reaches out to stroke his fingertips down John’s shirtfront. His eyes flick over John’s face – goodness only knows what he’s picking up from his scrutiny – and John squeezes Sherlock’s arm lightly.

But then Sherlock’s lips compress and he drops his hand.

‘We’ve been there before,’ he says, walking towards the edge of the platform and looking at the sky, ‘and only a fool repeats an experiment with exactly the same variables and expects a different result.’

‘Different variables,’ John contradicts, raising his voice over the noise of the approaching train. ‘Different experiment: you’re not the same man you were before, and I’m not–’

Sherlock interrupts but, since the train has begun to thunder through the platform, his words are drowned in the rush and the noise; only his fierce expression conveys anything and that changes a second later as he wheels around with a cry, clapping his hand to his face.

John springs forward in alarm, argument instantly forgotten.

‘What’s wrong?’ John demands, coaxing Sherlock’s hand away from his face, trying to see.

‘Grit,’ Sherlock says tightly, ‘dirt, _something_ , oh God.’

Sherlock’s eye is screwed shut and John winces at the thought of the thin, delicate cornea being exposed to the dust and grit of a railway track. As though Sherlock’s don’t already put up with enough abuse from his various noxious chemicals and lack of sleep.

There’s a small kiosk on the station platform, selling cold drinks and snacks. John darts over to it, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, drops a couple of quid on the counter, and doesn’t wait for his change before bringing it over to Sherlock.

‘Here.’ John twists the top off and holds it out, and Sherlock seizes it frantically. He tips some into a cupped hand and brings it to his face, washing his eye, and after a minute or so he sighs, shaking the water off his fingers and lifting his head.

‘Have you got it?’ John asks, moving nearer.

‘I think so.’ Sherlock blinks rapidly, his cheek wet.

‘Here, let me see.’ Doctor’s instincts are a difficult thing to suppress and thankfully Sherlock doesn’t argue, merely tips his head forward for John to gently ease his eyelid down and check.

‘You‘re fine,’ John says at last. Sherlock’s eye is bloodshot and watering profusely, but the upper and lower lids are clean.

He’s abruptly reminded of another occasion, many years ago, when he had to do exactly the same thing for a young man he’d only just met but who he already thought was the most gorgeous person he’d ever seen, and the sensation of history repeating itself almost knocks him breathless.

But this close it’s eminently obvious that the young man has grown older and wiser: there are the faintest of crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, eyes that are sharper and warier and sadder than they once were, and at his temple John spots a few silver hairs.

Wonder of wonders, Sherlock doesn’t stand up straight and move away; instead he’s happy to stay there, John’s hands on his face and tucked inside his personal space.

‘Sherlock,’ John says gently, never one to waste an opportunity, and particularly not one granted by such a capricious creature as Sherlock. He rubs Sherlock’s cheek gently with his thumb.

This time Sherlock closes his eyes briefly, looking suddenly wretched.

‘You would ruin me,’ he says bitterly. John leans forward slightly to catch his words, they’re half-lost in the summer breeze. ‘I had to delete what it was like last time, after you left. Don’t make me have to do it again.’

Had John thought him heartless or uncaring? The emotion in Sherlock’s voice now makes John wonder if there’s enough of his heart left whole that John can ask for it a second time.

‘You _won’t_ have to do it again,’ John insists, heart pounding as Sherlock at last steps back and John’s hands fall away. ‘Not like you did before. I’m not going anywhere.’

Sherlock frowns, unconvinced, and John asks ‘D’you think I _wanted_ to leave you last time? I’d signed up for the Army, Sherlock, I had no choice.’

‘Yes, thank you for stating the obvious, Doctor,’ Sherlock snaps, temper flaring as he turns away, but John refuses to be discouraged.

‘I’d given them my word,’ John says, hands clenching uselessly. He steps closer, back inside Sherlock’s personal space again, and insists, ‘I couldn’t break it. But they’ve had me.’ He reaches up to brush a lock of hair behind Sherlock’s ear. ‘I gave them ten years of my life, and now the rest of them are mine to give where I please. And all I want is to spend them with you, and make you as happy as you can be.’

Finally Sherlock smiles faintly, swayed lightly towards John.

‘I promise,’ John murmurs. There’s a rushing in his ears, his mouth dry. ‘I won’t ask you to trust me, not yet, but please. Let’s just try?’

And, wonder of wonders, Sherlock yields. He steps closer to John, tilting his face down as John leans up and bumps their mouths together in a tentative kiss; as their train pulls into the platform – all noise and bustle, making the platform quiver faintly under their feet – Sherlock wraps his arms tightly around John and finally kisses him properly, holding on as though John is the only fixed point in his world.


	14. Epilogue

As suspected, Sherlock falls asleep on the train back to London. Entirely unsurprising, since two consecutive nights without sleep will do that to anyone, and John watches him – propped up against the window, hair falling in his face and his expression soft and unguarded – and tries to keep all his newly fledged joy under control.

At Paddington station he manhandles a loose-limbed, uncoordinated Sherlock into a taxi, and then at the other end he has to rouse Sherlock enough to get himself up the stairs to their flat.

Once inside Sherlock shrugs off his coat, letting it fall over John’s chair, and stumbles off down the hall to his bedroom. John pauses only long enough to fill a glass of water and follows.

‘Here,’ he says, holding it out to Sherlock.

Sherlock, in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt while toeing off his shoes, looks up.

‘Drink this,’ John says. ‘Then you can sleep.’

Wonders will never cease, apparently; Sherlock takes it and downs the whole glass without argument, before unselfconsciously shoving his trousers down and off and crawling under the covers on his bed.

John isn’t quite sure where to look: Sherlock’s black briefs cling to every curve of his arse and his legs seem to go on for miles, but with Sherlock almost incoherent with tiredness it feels wrong to be appreciating the view.

John leans over Sherlock to pull the sheets and blankets up over him, and Sherlock catches his wrist.

‘Stay,’ Sherlock murmurs, his eyes closed.

John runs his hand over Sherlock’s hair, lightly. ‘Yeah?’

‘Mmm,’ Sherlock confirms, rolling onto his side to rub his cheek into his pillow, and so John kicks off his shoes and lies down on top of the covers on the other side of the bed, mirroring Sherlock’s loose sprawl.

Just this is enough, for now. Later on, of course, there’ll be sex – at least John hopes there will – and they’ve both a great deal of catching up and re-learning to do. But, here and now, this is enough. In fact it feels shockingly close to perfection.

Sherlock’s fingers drift towards John’s face, startling him; he could have sworn Sherlock was already fast asleep. The pads of his fingers trace delicately over the lines of John’s face, and John grimaces faintly. The desert sun and years of combat haven’t been kind, he knows.

‘You’ve been a very long way away,’ Sherlock murmurs indistinctly.

‘Yes,’ John says, catching Sherlock’s hand to brush a kiss over the backs of his fingers.

And then – because John can’t forget those marks on Sherlock’s arm, those years in Sherlock’s life he never mentions, and the way Sherlock can lose himself inside the dark recesses of his own mind without ever leaving the sofa – John can’t resist adding, ‘So have you.’

Sherlock murmurs in acknowledgement and, just before his hand goes slack in John’s, he sighs. ‘Thank you for coming back to me.’

\--End--


End file.
